Morsel

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Mona texts me her address, unaware that I already have it, then sends me an exact time to show up at her place.

Two weeks. Two whole fucking weeks pass. The urge to know what she’s doing crawls under my skin like slugs slithering along wet cement and exposed to stomping feet. I consider sneaking into her house again. I don’t though. Respect is earned. I want her to trust me. Even more than that, I want her to need me like I need her, and you don’t get something like that without developing a craving first.

Instead, I appease my own cravings by savoring the last tampon from her trash can. I cut it into quarter-inch pieces. I lick the dried red bits from my fingers, and I suck her menstrual blood a little more each day. I even heat one of the chunks in the microwave to pretend like the blood is from her thigh again, then I smooth out the warmed fibers on a cracker. It’s decadently satisfying, like brie and blood pudding sausage.

My entire world is about her.

By the time the designated evening comes, I’m ravenous. I show up slightly early and park my cargo van on the curb. A car is in her driveway, an electric model this time. A bunch of crates crowd the back seat, each container full of putties and paints. It must be Mona’s car too.

Under one of the boxes, two eyes seethe at me.

A replica of the classic Frankenstein’s monster is smashed under a cardboard box. It’s artistic, but it seems too predictable to be Mona’s project. Who owns the car: Mona or her friend?

I dismiss those thoughts, then heft my duffel bag up higher on my shoulder. Mona can create whatever she wants as long as I get to eat her.

I knock on the front door. It swings open.

A shirtless man with sinewy arms stands in the entryway. Jagged veins rope around his neck. His chest is gaunt, and his long hair is tied back in a low ponytail.

I squint. How do I know this man?

He offers his hand. “You must be the infamous Kent.”

His grip is shockingly strong, and his display of strength unsettles me. Then it clicks: the man from the art gallery. The one who tried to talk to me about Mona’s art. The idiot who wouldn’t stop trying to find meaning in a bunch of broken mirrors.

I force a smile, and I can feel it’s come out awkward, like I’ve got food stuck in my teeth.

“And you are?” I ask.

“Artemis. My friends call me Arty.”

I blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. It sounds like a stage name used to impress a woman like Mona. He’s annoying. A fucking peacock.

“Isn’t that a girl’s name?” I ask.

“I renamed myself after the Greek goddess of the wilderness and hunting because I wanted to tap into that power. Take the goddess’s name and honor it.” He chuckles. “It’s fitting, isn’t it? Especially for tonight.”

A roiling heat churns my stomach. We aren’t hunting Mona tonight, and she’s not a wild animal.

He stretches his thin shoulders as if he’s bigger than me, and in response, I expand my frame, caging him in. He’s an ant compared to me, and I want him to know that.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Come!” he says eagerly. “We were just getting into the spa.”

I grit my teeth, then follow him through the house. He effortlessly weaves through the hallways, and that familiarity irritates me. He doesn’t understand Mona’s sexual needs, and somehow, he knows her house like this? I had to learn the layout of her house the hard way, without her help when she was out working. Why does he get more access to her than I do?

The glass doors to the backyard slide open.

A bonfire flickers, the flames licking the earthy night. Mona sits in the hot tub, her hair pulled back into a bun, tendrils streaming beside her face, similar to how she looked in the bathtub at the art gallery. She’s in a stew again, cooking until she’s tender for me. This time, her cheeks are red. She’s probably hot, and judging by the bottles around her, she’s probably a little drunk too. Her flesh is flavored with ale and wine, as if she’s seasoned herself for me.

“You’re here!” she squeals. She reaches for a champagne flute. “Here. I saved you some.”

Before I can grab the glass, Artemis drops his shorts, his cock plopping between his legs like a scrawny turkey wattle. I forget about the drink. My cock is bigger and thicker, but his confidence is yet another thing that pisses me off. It’s like he has nothing to hide.

A normal person doesn’t have anything to hide. They aren’t like us.

He takes the spa’s steps gingerly, hooting as his body acclimates to the hot water. Then he scoots along the bench and sidles up right next to Mona.

The two of them stare at me.

My skin prickles with nerves. It’s like they’re waiting for a show, and I’m the rare, endangered animal brought out in a cage. A vision appears in my mind: my bloody hands splitting that cage apart, my fists bashing Artemis into a pulp, my jaws latching onto Mona’s neck.

“There’s a guest bedroom through the second set of sliding glass doors,” Artemis says, like it’s his house, and he has the right to tell Mona’s guests where to go and what to do. “You can put your things in there and change your clothes.”

Water swirls around them, the bubbles popping like a simmering beef broth, and Artemis fucking ruins it. He’s a chunk of metal found in a chicken nugget, a food you think is safe until your throat is slit in half.

I imagine gouging his eyes out. No—I’d chop off his fucking head.

“I didn’t bring swim trunks,” I say, my voice monotone.

Mona giggles. “You can wear your boxers.”

I inspect her, my gaze hardening, and she leans into Artemis’s shoulder, soaking in that shared bond. I’m back in that tent again, paralyzed as I watch my mother and her boyfriend fuck like rabbits.

Mona is mocking me, isn’t she? Just like my mother did. She thinks I’m too insecure to be naked like her and Artemis. She thinks I’ll bitch out.

This was supposed to be about us. Not him. This was supposed to be about us teaching him.

I refuse to back down now.

I throw my bag in the guest bedroom, then return completely naked, the cold stones under my feet as I walk to the hot tub. Mona’s gaze lingers over every inch of my body, her purrs of approval drifting over the foaming water. Artemis nods appreciatively too.

“Artemis got us some wagyu,” Mona says.

“It’s on the table,” Artemis adds.

I grab the tray of little red-and-white speckled slices of meat, then set it on the ground next to the spa.

Greed and irritation battle in me, my hands itching to hurt someone. Mona shouldn’t be eating meat, but I can’t tell her what to do yet. She has to choose it for herself.

At the same time, I’m not going to pass up a cut of meat like this.

I get into the hot tub, then grab a big portion of wagyu and let it slide over my tongue. It melts, and I groan, pretending the meat is a sliver of Mona’s skin that she cut off for me.

Artemis says something I can’t hear, and Mona laughs. A dull sensation surfaces in my stomach. I shove it down, blocking Artemis out and pretending it’s just the two of us. No one else. Mona and me.

Artemis whispers in her ear, then kisses her neck. Mona’s cheeks redden even more, like he’s telling her a dirty secret. A therapist once told me I didn’t have a normal social upbringing, and I think about that a lot when I see couples like this. Neck kisses don’t arouse me; I only do it because women like it. Dirty talk—unless it’s about eating her—does absolutely nothing for me. I don’t even like blow jobs, unless I’m watching a cannibalism montage, I guess. I’ll never be like Artemis is with women.

Mona reacts to him. She’s half normal, half like me.

Artemis nibbles her neck, and Mona’s lips part, a moan escaping her. Artemis beckons for me to join him.

“Come. Help me,” he says. I don’t move—I don’t want to help him, only her—but I do angle forward in an attempt to hear him more clearly. He turns to Mona and says in a husky voice, “You want me to bite you again?”

“Yes, baby,” Mona whispers. He nibbles her again, a rabbit eating a carrot. She leans into him. “Fuck me. I want it so bad.”

Artemis perks up, then makes eye contact with me. “Why don’t we use her from both ends?”

A normal threesome. A normal person would suggest that.

I turn my neck to avoid their eyes. Acidic bile crowds my throat, then the water sloshes, and Mona snakes her arm around my back, her naked breasts smashed against me in the water.

“Come on, Kent,” Mona whispers. Her fingers twist around my elbow. “You know how to make me feel alive. He doesn’t.”

She beams at me, her expression rich with lust and need. There’s a hunger there, and I want that hunger inside of me.

“Teach him,” she says. “Show him what we’re like.”

What we’re like.

I don’t know if it’s the fact she included me or made this about us, but alluding to him as the idiot outsider is the encouragement I need. My head spins as I gesture for them to follow me.

Soon, the three of us are outside of the hot tub. Mona is on all fours, and both of us fuck her like a seesaw, Artemis in her mouth and me in her pussy. The classic spit roast position, Artemis’s idea. He must think this position is enough to indulge Mona’s interests, and that annoys me for her.

The two of them grunt, and Mona’s warm cunt grips me like a glove. In the distance, one of her sculptures catches my eye. It’s vastly different from her other pieces; it’s not abstract or broken pieces put together. It’s a very realistic marble bird with one of its wings nailed to the ground. It doesn’t belong with the rest of Mona’s pieces.

I don’t belong here either.

Especially not when Artemis is around.

What the fuck am I still doing here?

“You want us to go harder? Would you like that, baby?” Artemis asks. My scalp stings, and each knot of frustration ties tighter around my rib cage. Does he really have to ask every time they do something together? Where’s the seduction in that?

“Yes,” she croaks, as if she can hardly contain herself, as if she likes this haphazard attempt at dirty talk.

She turns over her shoulder and looks at me, her eyes glazed and dark, trying to tell me something without actually saying it.

Finally, I see it.

Mona is acting. Pretending she likes this constant negotiation. She’s faking it like she admires the ridiculous amount of authority he’s giving her.

I can’t let him insult her anymore.

I pull out, then get to my feet.

“Where are you going?” Artemis asks. “We were just getting started, right, baby?”

I storm back to the guest room and rip a bundle of rope out of my duffel bag. I need more though. I wander through the other rooms swiftly as I search for inspiration, for anything to bring this night to where it’s meant to be.

I skim over a room decorated with jarred rodent organs and bat skeletons. I stop on a piece of paper on the desk. Each line is scrawled in a different style, the strokes switching between black and red ink, and in the corner, there’s a bright red doodle of a skeleton holding an umbrella, like Mona was brainstorming her next project or taking notes while she was on the phone with someone. I read the writing.

Desiree Duncan

Desire, the survivor

Desire, the non-victim?

Face her FEARS

Did she misspell the name, or did it switch from Desiree to Desire on purpose?

“Another fake name,” I mutter. “Probably one of Artemis’s idiotic friends.”

With that thought, I exit and hastily plod over to the kitchen. A bowl of fruit lies on the counter. I snatch a red apple from the top.

In the backyard, I throw the bundle of rope at Artemis’s feet. He raises a brow.

“Tie her wrists together. Hold her taut,” I instruct.

Mona’s eyes widen in glee. “Kent, I?—”

I swiftly bend down and shove the apple in her mouth. “Meat doesn’t speak,” I say.

She stiffens, her nipples beading. I rub my dick and admire my stuffed pig, ready for a long, slow roast in the oven.

Artemis fiddles with the rope. My jaw ticks.

“What’s taking so long?” I bark. “Don’t tell me you’ve never tied up a woman before.”

He lifts a loose knot. It’s reminiscent of a soft pretzel. Annoyance and rage flame behind my ribs. He doesn’t deserve Mona. He doesn’t deserve the air he fucking breathes.

“Will this hold?” he asks.

I yank the rope from his hands and tie her myself, placing her into an actual hogtie. In porn, they like to tie the ankles and wrists behind the woman, but like this—lying on her side with her limbs tied to the front—she’s more like a pig, ready to hang from the rotisserie.

I put a slice of wagyu on the curve of her ass and bite it off of her. She jumps, and I keep my mouth suctioned to her skin. The meat disintegrates on my tongue, and I stroke myself, enjoying every last flavor and texture as if it’s a full body orgasm.

Once it dissolves, I pull back and marvel at my masterpiece. My art. I’m teaching Artemis about our art, like Mona wanted.

A bright light flashes, illuminating us like we’ve been caught by the authorities. It’s probably a camera. I ignore it. All I want is her. Mona is alive, and it should be too cold for us to be naked right now, but with the bonfire and the blood rushing through my veins, I don’t feel the cold, nor do I mind that she’s not actually my meat. I squeeze the head of my cock, a groan bursting through me, and I imagine I’m a caveman, taking what’s mine.

I stuff another handful of wagyu into my mouth, then I bite Mona’s nipple so hard, tears pool in her eyes. Another flash of light. I bite Mona again. She’s an offering, a delicious feast, and I’m her god. The pressure in my cock consumes me, a geyser bubbling with the need for release.

Artemis puts the camera on the table, then kneels down and removes the apple from Mona’s mouth. Then he unties her wrists and ankles, before pulling her body on top of him and letting her take the reins.

Deep inside of my brain, I know there’s some part of Mona that likes Artemis too. A weak little man. A person that lets her control everything. And right next to those thoughts, I know I’m jealous of him.

I’m not a caveman. I don’t have to eat Mona. I can be like Artemis. I can be a good man who indulges. Who lets her do what she wants. She can have the best of both worlds with me.

Fuck that. I am the best man for her. I am better than my mother and my mother’s boyfriend. I’m better than fucking Artemis. I am better than everyone who has ever doubted me.

And I choose her.

Mona tosses her head back in pleasure, but my dick stays limp. I close my eyes and focus on my own needs until I’m back in that prehistoric fantasy: Mona stretched out before me, her body flickering in the firelight.

My dick hardens again.

The visions push further: blood gushes from her cut labia as I gore her cunt with my dick. Then, when it seems like she can’t take another thrust, I bring the fleshy slivers of her pussy lips to my mouth. Her ripe flesh disintegrates over my tongue.

And that’s when I come.