Morsel

Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Another week passes. Mona texts me every day. I do my best to ignore my phone. The irritation crests over my skin in goosebumps, the pressure building like a volcano each time my phone vibrates. Every text eats away at me like vultures consuming a flattened dog.

How am I supposed to ignore a woman like her?

Finally, I check the messages. Come over, the most recent text reads. I need you to fuck me and eat me.

I snarl at those half-assed words. “Eat me” is tacked on to the end, like she wants sex, but she knows I’ll only be enticed if I can roleplay with cannibalism too.

Maybe that’s true. Maybe I don’t want to play by her rules anymore.

Busy, I text back.

You’re always busy, she responds.

I shake my head, ready to toss my phone across the room, but the device vibrates again.

Come eat my blood, she sends. My period is heavy today.

My lips part. Tension curls around my groin, tingling over my veiny shaft and numbing me all the way to the inner tissue.

Period blood.

A period is monthly. If I eat her menstrual blood, I’m not causing any harm. I’ve done it before.

This time will be better though. Wet. Hot. Viscous. And straight from the source.

And like a pathetic little boy, I give in.

About an hour later, she opens the front door. A short pencil skirt clings to her hips, and her small breasts are pushed up in a lacy bra.

She dressed to seduce me.

I hate lingerie. It reminds me of the obnoxious sex workers, and the tricks they performed to finish our sad dates as quickly as possible. But, fuck me, knowing that Mona is bleeding under that skimpy fabric makes my stomach growl.

“I knew you’d come,” she says with a smirk.

I grit my teeth, but she grabs my hand, and I follow her.

In the kitchen, Mona hoists herself up on the dark countertop. The skirt bunches around her hips like crumpled plastic wrapping. Her knees part, and the white tampon string lies on the marble surface. A faint reflection of the plug’s tether echoes in the polished stone.

Her plump labia are stuck together like slices of deli meat in a sandwich, and the menstrual blood smeared on her inner thighs reminds me of tomato sauce decorating the bottom of a pasta bowl. My cock presses into my zipper.

“Pull the tampon out,” she says.

For once, I don’t hesitate at being told what to do. I tug at the string until the drenched cotton plops on the countertop. I move it to the side and take a mental note to save the tampon for later, all while I keep ogling her meat hole.

Her pussy muscles visibly tighten: a gloop of gummy liquid squishes out of her hole.

A blood clot.

My groin and face flush with heat. I rub my lips together. The blood clot is the size of a small sugar-coated candy. I bet it tastes like nectar too.

“Is that normal?” I ask. My tone is stunned, too captivated by her bloody cunt to form any emotion.

“Does it matter?” she says. She bares her sharp white teeth. “Think of it, love. By eating this part of me, you’re not hurting anyone. Surely, you’re capable of doing something as small as this.”

A ball of shame tumbles around my stomach like sharp rocks. I can’t decide if I’m turned on or if I’m pissed that she’s questioning my abilities again.

She pinches the blood clot with her fingers, and it splits in half like a lump of gravy. Her fingers paint my lips, the rich irony scent of her blood wafting in my nostrils.

My head is on fire.

“It’s okay,” she says in a raspy voice. “Why throw this blood in the trash when you can eat this part of me?”

I blink rapidly and try my hardest to keep myself together. She’s right. I can’t waste something as precious as this.

I suddenly realize our relationship has been going on for way more than a month now. Why has she kept other periods from me?

I should’ve been tracking her cycle or digging in her trash this whole time. It’s okay though. If I missed one or two periods, then fine. I’ve been good. I’ve been giving her space so that I can earn her trust, and that’s how it’s supposed to be. Day by day, Mona will be more comfortable with me, and eventually, she’ll trust me with her whole body.

I need to ask though. “Is your cycle regular?”

She shakes her head. “That’s why I had to wait until now.”

For some reason, her word choices seem suspicious. Maybe I’m being paranoid though. I don’t know how or why she would lie about a period.

I need to forget about those questions. I don’t need those answers; I just need to taste her. The real her. I need more of her blood.

“Go on,” she says. “Give it a taste.”

I fall to my knees like a defeated man praying to his goddess, and I lap at her pussy lips. Her trimmed pubic hairs scrape along my tongue and send shivers down my spine. Then I suckle at the hole, dragging the edges of her pussy into my mouth, and a moan murmurs through her. Her musky scent, sour and acidic and metallic with blood, fills my nostrils. A drop of her blood swims into my mouth, and she tastes decadent—like a bite of fatty steak, covered in a red wine glaze—and that desire flames in my chest. My tongue swirls around her thick clit, and I resist the urge to bite it until it bleeds too. Her hips gyrate closer to the edge of the counter.

“That feels good,” she says.

I unzip my pants and pull out my dick. My tongue penetrates her bloody gash. Her inner thighs cling to my head and stamp my cheeks with damp blood. I pump my dick and suck in as much of her life juice as I can and ruminate over the flavors.

Period blood is different from the fresh blood I got from her thigh. It’s stale, like freezer-burned ice cream, but the undertones are sweet and metallic. It’s still Mona, the literal shedding of her uterus, the shell of her motherhood. It’s like I’m eating a baby that never was, and I hold on to that knowledge like it’s the holy grail of cannibalism. Our perfectly crafted loophole.

This skirts the rules, because even normal people have period sex. This means I’m not a cannibal.

My eyes whirl to the back of my head as my tongue laps at her bloody seam. “I could eat you on toast,” I murmur.

“Then do it.”

My tongue stops. Is she serious?

Mona tilts her head toward a plastic bag of sandwich bread on the opposite counter.

“The toaster is over there,” she says as she motions to the other side of the kitchen.

Each heartbeat in my ears is like a fucking drum, warning me that she’s controlling me once again.

I keep going. I don’t want to stop. Not when I can literally eat her like she’s paté. I take a slice of bread from the bag, then pop it into the toaster.

“Butter knives?” I ask.

She points at a drawer. “In there.”

I pull the drawer out fully, then stare down at the contents. A serrated knife, a chef’s knife, and a cleaver are thrust inside of a clear plastic block, and two narrow organizers contain butter knives and steak knives. A steak knife isn’t the blade I need. All I need is a butter knife.

I grip the handle of a steak knife anyway.

A butter knife may not work for this, I tell myself. Knowing Mona’s current diet, the steak knives are likely used more, and therefore cleaner than the butter knives. And I can be gentle. I can treat her like a jar of jam. I’ve never broken a jar of food before.

The toaster pops. I place the slice on the countertop next to her, then kneel between her legs. She moves her hips, positioning herself so that I can spoon inside of her. I carefully dip the knife into her cunt. She beams down at me, so pleased with herself, so pleased with me. She knows I’m using a knife on her.

But she must not realize it’s a steak knife; otherwise, she wouldn’t be so smug.

I angle the utensil to the side like I’m scooping peanut butter. She giggles.

“Is that okay?” I ask.

“It reminds me of a speculum at the gynecologist’s office,” she says. “This is way better though.”

When I pull out the knife, a large clump of bloody lining clings to the edge of the blade, shining like a dark wine. I slather it on the toast.

I chomp into the treat. The first bite hits my lips and tongue; savory bread and her earthy flavors swim over my taste buds. My body throbs with pleasure.

“Fuck, Mona,” I say. “You taste so fucking good.”

She rubs the top of my head, her fingers combing my short hair. “Then be a good boy and eat me, love.”

My jaw flexes. A good boy. Like I’m her toy. Her slave. Her little bitch.

No. I can’t be mad. Not when she’s letting me eat her period blood on toast. I want this. I want Mona. I even want the parts of her that fight me for control. I want everything she has to offer, and if that means I have to relinquish control for the chance to eat her period blood, then I’ll be on my knees until her uterus is sucked dry.

I take another bite of the toast. This time though, the wheat dominates my palette. There’s something incomplete about this, isn’t there? I want Mona, but this isn’t it. Menstrual blood is always going to come out of her. I have nothing to do with it.

I want to eat her. All of her.

But I also want her pain.

Before I can question myself, I stick the knife back into her pussy. She coos in approval, then I push the knife deeper, and she grimaces.

“Wait,” she pants. “Hold on. What are you?—”

The knife pierces the crust of her cervix, like cutting into a firm potato, and she screams, the cry raking through her and vibrating into me. I have no idea how deep I actually went, but liquid oozes out of her pussy, and I salivate.

It’s blood. Red and fresh and vibrant against her pale thighs.

My dick is like a fucking baton right now, ready to knock someone unconscious, and the fucked-up part is that I want to hurt Mona like that. I want to choke her. I want to watch the will to live drain from her eyes.

I lick my lips, my mouth filling with spit. I want to taste her blood. Fresh blood. Straight from the tap.

She didn’t cut herself this time. She didn’t bleed on her monthly cycle. No. I cut her this time. Me, the predator.

My appetite grows. As my lips near her pussy, I clench my jaw shut.

I just hurt Mona. I’m not supposed to hurt her.

This is supposed to be safe. Pretend. What the fuck was I thinking?

“It’s okay,” Mona says in between hyperventilating breaths. “It’s okay. Don’t panic. It’s only a little cut?—”

She’s right. It’s only a little blood, but it’s not enough. I still want to hurt her.

And I know I can’t.

I drop the knife and race through the house. The front door swings open, and I’m in the van in less than a minute. Blood has dried on my cheek, and my hands are red. I must seem insane right now, but I have to stop this before it goes too far.

Mona chases after me. Her words are loud, but I can’t hear a damn thing. I avoid looking at her directly. In my periphery, I see her shadow limping from the pain.

I can’t think about what that means. I can’t think about how much I like that she can’t walk without being in pain.

I did that to her.

And I fucking love it.

She hobbles down the driveway, then bangs her fists on the driver’s window. I suddenly remember the full tampon on the counter, but I can’t go back now. I put the car in reverse, and she jumps back, avoiding the wheels.

I need to get out of here.

I drive faster than usual and swerve through a red light. Car horns blare after me. I can’t stop though. I have to get away from her. I’ve eaten Mona’s tampons on crackers before, and I just ate Mona’s period blood on toast. The menstrual blood isn’t what unnerves me.

It’s the fact that I liked stabbing her pussy.