Morsel

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

For the next week, that’s our pattern. Three fingertips—finger slivers really, not that I’m complaining—and two toes. It irks me that I don’t get to see the actual carving, but when she comes to my home covered in bandages, I forget about the frustration. It’s impossible for my dick to stay limp when she’s vulnerable like that.

This isn’t sustainable though. We’ll have to make hard choices soon, decisions about what’s next and where to go from here. I’ve always known a woman like her was a rare collector’s item, and now that I’ve got her—now that I’ve confirmed that she’s truly what I want—I’ll never let her go. I’m not that stupid.

I pull the scratchy comforter up on the bed. It swallows us in heat. Mona rubs her naked ass against my crotch. My dick pokes the rim of her asshole, and though I’m not interested in anal sex, everything sounds amazing if I get to eat another piece of her.

I pull her into my arms and press my lips to her ear. “Let me cut one,” I say in a low voice. “I want to watch your face as the flesh leaves your body and becomes a part of me.”

“Kent,” she murmurs. “It’s hard to walk. I need time to heal.”

I lick her ear, my dick growing at those words. She needs time to heal. Why do I like that so much?

Five pieces of her body in a few days is a lot of flesh.

But one more toe won’t make that much of a difference.

“It won’t be a toe you need, ” I argue. “Come on, Mona. I want to see your face.” Warmth rushes over my body as I imagine her mouth contorting in love and agony. “I want to see the pain you have to endure for me.”

She stiffens, her shoulders rigid. And with that small change, I know she’s annoyed with me.

She curls away, moving her hips out of my crotch. “I have to teach soon,” she says.

I sigh. Teaching. Right. She can’t suddenly go to class in a wheelchair. That would cause gossip, and gossip can lead to personal issues for her.

Mona loves controversy though, especially if it has to do with her art.

A part of me knows that her irritation doesn’t have to do with teaching at the university; it has to do with the fact I keep asking for more.

You warned her that this would happen, my brain argues. How can she expect you to stop now?

There’s a solution somewhere. We can make this work. If I find another way to be satisfied—to keep us satisfied—then Mona can keep most of her fingers and toes. We can live together for a long time. Maybe even into old age.

The thought is barely formed before the words come out. “What if we eat people together?” I ask.

She rolls over to face me with a deadpan expression. “I’m doing a project where I’m the one being eaten,” she says dryly. “I’m not a cannibal.”

Her words slice through me. It’s like she’s cutting off the space between us, even though we’re mere inches from each other.

Is she looking down on me for eating her?

Shame tingles in my toes. No. She’s right. Eating people and being eaten are two completely different things. Feeding Mona another human won’t please her.

What am I supposed to say now?

“That’s not what I meant,” I say. “I know you’re not a cannibal. I just mean—I don’t have to eat all of you.” I scratch the back of my neck. “I’ll make it work with other meats, you know? I’ll only eat from you one morsel at a time.”

Panic flutters in my chest. I should be offended that she thinks being a cannibal is an insult, but I can’t even be mad at her right now. I just want to keep her with me.

I fucked up. I fucked up big time.

This is love. I can save this.

I have to.

“Right, little morsel?” I wheeze. “Just one small bite each time. Enough to whet my appetite. I’d never really hurt you like that.”

Her eyes hold mine, and there’s a lack of emotion there, as if she’s keeping herself together just to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible. Just like the sex workers.

Still, the words are on the tip of my tongue, full of weight and emotion, and so desperate to come out, to be everything for her. I love you, Mona, I want to say, and I’m so grateful for everything you’re doing for me. I’m so grateful, in fact, that I don’t want to mess this up. I want to keep you forever. I want to keep you like you’re mine, so that it’s up to me—only me—to keep you safe. I’ll keep you locked away for my pleasure. And I’ll be good to you, Mona. I’ll worship you the only way I know how until there’s nothing left between us. Until we’re together, combined in one body. One soul. One flesh. Isn’t that what love is?

My lips move, but none of those words come out. Instead, my head fills with images of my mother dead on the dining room table, the hole in her stomach crawling with maggots. Her sawed-off tongue in my hands, stiff and spongy. A savory cake.

Then those images morph and become Mona’s foot with two missing toes. Patches of skin picked from her calves, like cupped pepperoni slices plucked from a pizza.

“It’s just a toe,” I say quietly. “I don’t have to eat the rest.”

“You’re being selfish,” she snaps.

Our naked bodies are so close that our heat is an inferno; at the same time, those words send ice through my veins. There are bandages on her fingers. Wraps around each ankle and each missing toe. Gloves on top of her hands and socks on her feet. Everything to keep her safe and sealed. Barriers guarding her from me. And she could have more protection. We could be in different beds, different rooms, different universes, and the fact would remain the same.

Mona thinks I’m selfish.

My mother used to say things like that. She’d call me selfish when all I wanted was to not be hungry anymore. To be full and satisfied for once. To feel like I had something I could call my own.

My mother never gave me any of that.

I shouldn’t be comparing Mona to my mother though. They’re different people. Mona gave parts of herself to me. Even if she doesn’t realize it, Mona loves me.

Control yourself, I think. You’ll get what you want.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I start to say, but a drop of anger taints my next words. “Mona, you know I’m trying?—”

“Can’t you be happy with what I give you?”

Water brims the edges of her eyes. Pleading. Begging me to understand. But the longer I stare at her, the less those tears seem real.

It’s another performance, isn’t it? Or am I that callus?

I should be groveling, but I’m hungry, and fuck, doesn’t she see that I haven’t done anything wrong? All I did was ask. For fuck’s sake, it’s not like I actually cut off her toe.

A choking noise breaks up her tears.

“I have to amputate my toes at my house for my project, and you have the audacity to want more of me?” She recoils, her nostrils flaring. “Let me break it down for you. If I do it here or if I let you do it, then that won’t fulfill my vision. And if I don’t get what I want, then none of this will matter. I won’t matter. My art won’t matter. And you definitely won’t matter. Do you understand what I’m saying, or do I need to make it simpler for you?”

Weakness clamors through my body. We’re lying down, but my head spins like I’m about to trip down the stairs. I understand what she’s saying, but I don’t want her words to be true.

She’s calling me stupid, isn’t she?

It hurts, but she’s right though. I am stupid. I shouldn’t have let my desires get out of hand.

“Okay,” I mutter. “Can I at least go to your house and watch, then?”

She rubs her temples. “Will you ever stop?”

I scrape my hand over my face and numb those emotions.

I can be good. I can be better. I can control myself. But will I ever stop asking? If I’m being honest with myself, I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe after she gives me what I want. The question seems bigger than that though, like she knows that my hunger for her will never actually be satiated.

For a split second, I see it from her view: I have a woman who is finally willing to cut off parts of her body for me, and for some stupid reason, I need more.

Maybe I am selfish.

And I find myself begging her.

“I can be good,” I say. My voice cracks, and I hate, hate, hate how I’m the little boy cowering in the corner and waiting for his mother to look at him and approve for once. I can’t help it though. This is who I am, and I need her to need me too. “I swear I’ll be good.”

A low breath whistles from her mouth, and she reaches for my hands. “Let’s wait until my body heals first, then we’ll talk, okay? Right now, I’m starving.”

My heart pounds. I can fix that for her.

I prop myself up on my elbow. “Let me feed you,” I say. She raises a brow, and I brush the black strands of hair out of her eyes. “Not like the restaurant this time. I’ll pick something up. I want to take care of you.”

She gives me a curious half-smile. “Okay. Sure.”

“Stay in bed,” I say. She nods in obedience. I rush to pull on my boxers and pants. “I’ll be right back.”

At the nearest grocery store, I buy a beet salad and orange juice with cash. Next door at the antique shop, the display window catches my eye: a gold chrome vintage wheelchair. It’s gleaming and borderline gaudy. I’m cutting it close to Mona’s lecture, but even if we’re a little late, this gift will be worth it.

I pay for the wheelchair with cash, and it easily fits in the back of my cargo van. A short while later, I roll the wheelchair into the bedroom.

“I’ve got a surprise for you now,” I say. “I don’t want you to waste any time walking when you can be healing those pretty little feet.”

Mona lights up, and that expression of amusement reassures me that I did the right thing.

“Is this about my comfort, or is it about speeding up the healing process?” she says as she slips gingerly into her shoes. “Either way, thank you, love. This is perfect.”

We don’t have time to eat, so we rush to the university. In the lecture hall, everyone gawks as I push Mona’s wheelchair, then the students gossip to one another. Mona beams, her eyes sparkling as she soaks in the recognition and the rumors; it’s the same smile she had when she entertained her fans at the art gallery. She’s in a wheelchair with missing appendages, and yet, this small change gives her power.

“What do you think they’re saying?” she whispers.

I open my mouth to tell her how she’s hypnotizing everyone with her allure, just like she’s captured me, but Mona starts lecturing, and my answer falls silent as if what I think doesn’t actually mean anything to her. It almost hurts.

But like a good, supportive boyfriend, I shake those emotions off and take my place in the front row. Her lips move, and her words dance around the room. I don’t hear her though. My attention is solely on the way her body moves. Her neck muscles twisting. Her tendrils of arm flesh shifting under each movement. The bandage scratching against the bottom of her pant legs, waiting for me to unravel the layers. No one knows that there are chunks missing from her body, pieces of flesh that are inside of me now. How could anyone even imagine that my body is digesting her, taking her nutrients and transforming them so that I’m a better, more complete person?

I’m in awe of my little morsel.

I’m so lucky to have found her.