Morsel

Chapter 19

Chapter 19

You never really hear about the aftermath of cannibalism. Everyone is so obsessed with the actual eating that no one thinks about the practicality of it. And when your crazy girlfriend breaks into your home to surprise you with a devotional gift in which she literally removes a part of herself, no one thinks about the fact your house is now covered in blood, or it’s going to take hours cleaning up the stains, or she probably won’t stay to help you clean up.

No, you don’t think about that.

You think about coming home from work.

You think about eating more of her.

You think about savoring every bite.

And that’s where my head is at—exhausted and dazed—when I arrive at the processing plant. The supervisor stands outside of my locker, his head bowed.

“What?” I ask.

He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Look, Kent,” he says quietly. “You’re a good kid, but we caught you stealing on camera, and with your missed shifts lately, we just?—”

I grit my teeth. We both know where this is going.

“You’re firing me,” I say.

The supervisor pats my shoulder. “I don’t want to do this to you, but the other option is reporting you to law enforcement. I convinced the big boss that we should just fire you, and let that be it.” His head bobs toward the locker. “You can clean up, then I’m afraid I have to walk you out. I told security I wanted to do it. You’re a good kid, Kent. You deserve that much.”

The way he calls me “a good kid” leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I’m thirty years old, and yet it’s like the supervisor, Mona, Artemis, and everyone else in this world think they can look down on me.

I clear my locker, then we exit the building. The supervisor stays at the back entrance and watches me.

I pull out of the parking lot and take the van back to the fields. I don’t have a job, but I don’t care, because I have Mona now. For the first time, I’ve consumed human flesh consensually, and it’s so fucking good. My mother, my boss, and everyone else rejected me, but Mona? She gave her fingertips to me.

Mona is everything.

In the mobile home, I clean the blood stains for hours. I become so physically drained that even the dried blood on the kitchen counter seems appetizing. I drag my tongue over it and relish the gamey taste. It tastes familiar, but there’s something weird about it. It’s not quite Mona. There’s something missing from it. An emptiness.

I shrug my shoulders. It’s probably pig’s blood. She probably dumped the pig’s blood inside, then left the bucket by the offal pit where I found it. She must’ve used it to supplement her actual blood. Besides, if it was all hers, she’d be completely drained. The pig’s blood is another prop to include in her art performances.

Just like I’m another prop.

That’s okay, I tell myself before the irritation gets under my skin. It’s better if she uses pig’s blood. We don’t want her to die just yet. Not until ? —

The front door opens, and Mona’s shadow fills the doorway. Afternoon light floods in behind her.

“You’re back,” I say.

She walks languidly, careful with each step, avoiding a slip in her own blood.

I scrunch my nose. The blood is almost completely cleaned up by now. There’s no reason for her to walk like that.

She leans on the counter. “I went back home to get you something.”

Her eyes twinkle mischievously. Black gloves cover her hands, and three of the fingertips bulge underneath the fabric; it must be from the bandages. That’s good. She needs to heal so she can provide more for me.

“Bandages?” I ask, then tilt my head toward her thicker fingers.

She nods. “Now I can’t be found guilty of a crime, right? And with my permission—my consent to your cannibalistic fantasies—you can’t be found guilty either.”

Her laughter cackles between us, and the hair stands on the back of my neck. Somehow, I’ve eaten her fingertips, and this is still a joke to her. I’m an object that she can mold for the sake of her art.

She thinks I’m stupid. Like I won’t catch onto her game. Like she’s the one hunting me.

I’m the one who ate her fingertips. I’m the one who is consuming her, and as much as I appreciate her, her smug attitude fucking irritates me.

“Mind if I take your picture?” she asks.

I grip the red-stained rag. “You want a picture of me cleaning?”

“No. I want pictures of you jerking off,” she says dryly. “Yes! Of course I want pictures of you cleaning up the blood. I want to capture everything you do.”

Before I can verbally respond, the shutter clicks. The camera’s mechanics chant rhythmically like smacking lips. Each step of hers is weighted, sinking into the laminate, and it’s like she’s digging a deeper grave for me with her feet.

Tension crawls up my spine. She’s following me and documenting what I’m doing, and it should feel good to know she cares about the menial stuff too, like cleaning. Instead, it pisses me off. It’s like I’m another one of her many followers, cleaning up her messes.

Why doesn’t she ask if she can help? It’s not like I’d make her clean. I don’t want her to clean, but for fuck’s sake, I want her to pretend like she cares.

No—I wouldn’t let her clean, even if she asked. I’d tell her to lie down before I tie her down and eat the rest of her fingers.

A normal person doesn’t say things like that though.

I smear the rag over the counter absentmindedly. This is a part of Mona’s art project too. If she wants pictures of me cleaning, then I can accept that, as long as I get another bite.

I turn over my shoulder. “You said you brought me something?”

She pulls a small object from her purse. The box is lined with blue velvet, the kind of container that holds a diamond ring or an expensive wristwatch.

“It’s a present,” she murmurs. “For you.”

My nose wrinkles. “I like presents like your fingertips, babe, not watches or?—”

She opens the box. A paper towel drenched in blood is folded inside of it, and on top lies a stubby toe. The cut end of the toe is frayed, the flesh mangled and raw, and the nail is painted bright red. It reminds me of the recording lights on her cameras.

Blood drains from my head and goes straight to my cock, an erection raging through me. I’d prefer to cut it off myself, but this is good. This is definitely a good start.

I look at Mona and realize she’s keeping her weight to one side, favoring her right, giving herself time to heal. A limping woman is much easier to catch than a woman that can run.

My heart swells. She cut off her toe for me.

This is eternal fucking love.

A nagging sensation sews through my neck and worms its way into those pleasant thoughts. I swat it away like a mosquito, but it buzzes incessantly until I can’t ignore it: I wanted to be the one to cut off a part of her, and she took that away from me.

No, my brain argues. She did this for you. Be happy for once.

I am happy. I swear I am.

“You cut off your toe,” I gasp. I rub my dick through my pants. “Mona, you cut your toe?—”

She winks. “You were so worried about doing the right thing that I knew you wouldn’t?—”

I smash my lips to hers and silence her words before she says something that ruins this act of love between us. I don’t listen to the warnings that she thinks I’m not man enough to cut off her toes. I don’t listen to the voices whispering that she’s in control, that she’s still manipulating me. I don’t listen to any of that. I savor our kiss, my rock-hard dick smashed between us like a panini, because it’s good—no, it’s better than good. It’s euphoric to call her mine. I’ve never exchanged I-love-yous with a woman before, but this? Her toe? A present for me? That’s more than love.

Her mouth opens and lets me inside. The hint of toothpaste and the slightly sweet flavor of her tongue dances over my tastebuds. At the end of the kiss, bitterness leaks through, crowding my senses.

Meat-eater.

I pull back enough to speak, my words brushing her lips. “Don’t eat meat anymore. I want to taste you. Not other animals. Just you.”

“Is that a request or a command?” she asks quietly.

I don’t answer that question; I simply expect her obedience, like she expects it from me. If she wants to argue about her rights to eat animal meat, then I can explain the health benefits to her later.

I hold the back of her head, my fingers tangled in her black hair. My fingers massage her ears as I kiss down the column of her neck. She presses her pussy closer to my dick.

Each kiss, each nibble, each thrust of our bodies drops me deeper into a fantasy: the two of us living on the farm together. My raised human meat. My little morsel. A woman like Mona needs luxury. She said it herself though: a farm is a cannibal’s wet dream, and she can indulge me every once in a while. We can use the farm as our vacation home. We can even eat a person together. A second home like this could be a new way to jumpstart her creativity. Maybe I’ll even give her a part of me too.

I unbutton her blouse and bite the tips of her nipples. A pleasure-filled groan bursts through me.

“I still want those,” she laughs. With more of her breast meat in my mouth, I bite again, deeper this time, enough to break skin.

She cries into me and stuffs her nose in my neck. “At least let me film it.”

I suck the blood from her skin, savoring her metallic essence. It’s not dull and empty like the dried blood from the countertop, but deep and rich, the sting of raw cinnamon peppering every drop. My eyes roll into the back of my skull. I suck out more. She taps the back of my head like she wants me to stop.

Reluctantly, I let go of her nipple. Only because I can eat her toe now.

“Too bad I can’t milk you too,” I say.

“You dirty boy,” she says, and the filthy bitch flings her cunt up at me. I pull her leggings down and moan as I see the bandage wrapping around her ankle and winding obsessively around her missing toe, the second to last one. The childhood game with the toe piggies pops into my head, and my body warms as those words course through me: this little piggy had none. I’m not a little boy, and I don’t have none anymore. I have so much when it comes to Mona. My little morsel.

I kiss down her calf, over her ankle, then hover above the bandage and swallow that gauzy, coppery scent.

“It hurts,” she whines.

A guttural growl rips through me. “Good.”

I let my pants hang around my hips, then I pick up her camera and snap a picture of her lying down, spread out before me like a mouthwatering feast. She yanks the camera from my hands and starts taking pictures of me. Behind the lens, her eyes are hungry, greedy, full of lust, and locked on me.

She did this for me.

I lay down between her thighs. “You’re so good to me,” I say. “You did all of this for me.”

My tongue paints her pussy in saliva. Her meaty folds, even that beady clit, are salty, and I lick every crevice, tasting her cracks. I even lick her asshole and consider the possibility of eventually using her intestines as sausage casings.

Her breathing grows heavy. I fist my dick, and her pussy’s subtle bitterness and those sweet undertones envelop my tongue. She’s warm, like meat straight out of the oven, and I swear, as I get back up on my knees, ready to fuck her, my brain fuzzes with heat. I get out that blue velvet box, and her lips part. The camera lens lowers; the red recording light glares at me.

I pull out the toe and lick the end. The fleshy fibers are wet and brittle, like a pinch of uncooked spaghetti noodles. I pop the whole thing in my mouth.

It’s softer than you’d expect. Gamey and mild, without any crunch of bone.

With my mouth full, I ask, “The bone?”

“I wanted to use it for the project.”

I grin. “Such an artistic little slut.”

My dick slides inside of her as I chew her toe. Her pussy suffocates me, a boa constrictor murdering its prey, and I contemplate the possibilities. It seems infinite, but it’s really not. How can I keep my meat alive for the longest amount of time? A sedentary pet, bound and helpless, reliant on me, will eventually die. It’ll hurt to lose her—I know that—and I still want to go through with this.

“Kent,” Mona moans. “I love watching you eat me. You’re such a big, scary mon?—”

Before she can finish, I choke her. The air squeezes from her lungs, her eyes bulging, and her delicious little cunt cinches me in a death grip. I get the feeling she almost called me a “big, scary monster” to mock me, but a vessel in her eye bursts, the blood spreading across her sclera like a drop of dye in water, and I’m satisfied.

She begins to thrash. Soon, she’ll finally understand the real me. The parts I’ve been holding back. The secrets I’ve buried. The needs I must feed.

I swallow her toe, gulping it down like thoroughly chewed jerky.

“You’re right, little morsel,” I say. “I am a monster.”

She passes out, her body limp and pliant, and I keep fucking her until I come. Once Mona learns what’s best for her, she’ll hand over that control. She’ll give me her power like she gave me three fingertips and a toe. It’s not my fault if this is what she wants. She chose this. And if the human body can survive this much, why wouldn’t I push her further? Why would I stop now when I can enjoy all of her meat?

We only live once, and I’ll make the most of her body.

It’s what we both want.