Morsel

Chapter 32

Chapter 32

The blunt end of the thread hangs down from Mona’s stitches. I cut off the excess, then marvel at my work.

Her left nipple is gone now, replaced by a blue-threaded line. This time, she doesn’t ask where I got my suturing kit. The explanation about the hormones must have been enough for her to know it’s better not to ask any questions.

“There,” I say. “Good as new.”

Once the orgasm subsided, I knew I had to get to work before she gave out on me. It turns out I didn’t actually cut off that much of her tit, but to be honest, the bitch never had more than a handful anyway.

I slam the top of the cage shut, then slap the lock together and sit on the edge of my bed.

“Get on your hands and knees,” I bark.

The meat hole flips around, more obedient now than she’s ever been, and I rub my dick through my pants as I stare at her. Her tits are clean—I mean, her only whole tit is clean—but the rest of her body, including her face, is streaked with dirt, snot, and blood. I should wash her, though it seems like a lot of work right now, especially after the stitches.

A low hum drifts into the house, the mechanical noises rippling through the rooms.

Mona’s body shifts.

My teeth snap together, and I know what she’s thinking.

A car.

Cars rarely come down this way. Even the dump trucks drive in the other direction. If it was a car though, this could be her only chance.

It’s not a car though. It’s the echoes of the compactors restarting at the landfill. I know the sound well. Still, the hope erupts in her eyes, and her chin shudders in panic. My cock thickens in fascination.

“Help me!” she yells. “Please help?—”

My upper lip curls into smugness. “Please” isn’t a word I’ve ever heard from her mouth. It’s not like Mona to ask for something, but I guess when you’re stuck in a cage, your breast is hacked to shit, a sliver of your labia is chopped off, and a monster like me holds the key to your confinement, you don’t have much room to be entitled or demanding anymore.

The machinery dribbles into white noise, and her lips keep shaking.

“That was the landfill,” I murmur, cutting off her cries. “No one is coming to save you. After all, no one can hear you. You know that, right, my little morsel?”

Her pleading words transform into a blood-curdling scream. My cock bobs, yearning for more of that fear.

“You fight too much,” I laugh. “You shouldn’t waste your energy on that.”

A tear rolls down her cheek. Her eyes stay on the floor. I like that.

Blood expands in my vessels, and my chest pounds. Fuck me, I really like that. I don’t know if she’s avoiding eye contact with me because she’s scared or petulant, but my dick is harder than a boulder, and fuck, I’m feeling so powerful right now.

I unzip, then thrust my dick in one of the cage’s openings. There are many reasons why I bought this cage in particular, and the most amusing reason is the fact that my big dick can actually fit through the openings. Technically, I can fuck her while she’s inside of it.

Mona stays perched on all fours with her ass against the side of the cage. The crown of my cock dips inside of her warmth, and her heat sucks me in, but she remains lifeless, a rotting corpse.

I want more from her.

I move my hips forward in a sharp jerk. “Are you scared now?” I ask. “Tell me.”

I smack my hips against the cage again, aching more for her tight heat, but my thrusting is a rhythmic drum without a song, and her pussy stays flaccid and bored. Like she’s playing dead.

Irritation froths in my mouth, but I push it down. I’ll get what I want out of her. I don’t care what it takes.

“Answer me!” I shout.

Her shoulders harden. “You just told me to stop fighting, dumbass.”

I freeze with my tip inserted inside of her. Mona stiffens. She has a good point though. I like the idea of keeping her caged like a wild animal, but our time is precious. I can’t waste these last moments keeping her confined.

I want her to fight me.

I also want her to understand that she can’t get away.

“You’re right,” I say in a low voice. My neck tingles, and those nerves pinch down my sides, reaching all the way to my balls. “A cage isn’t a suitable place for my little morsel.”

She cracks her head to the side. She’s listening, but she knows not to fully trust me anymore.

“Keep your eyes on the ground,” I say.

The submissive little animal does, and I leave her for a minute. In the kitchen, I grab the cleaver and tuck it inside my back pocket. Then I turn on the stove burner to its maximum heat setting and put a cast iron pan on it to get hot.

Back in the bedroom, the livestock continues to do as it’s told. Eyes on the floor. Obedient. Submissive. Silent. My perfect meat.

“Come out, pretty girl,” I say as I unlock the cage. “I’ll bite, but it won’t be that bad. I promise.”

Her head subtly shakes. When she looks up, her bottom lip is swollen, snot is crusted around her nostrils, and dried blood is caked in a thin stream from her nose, down over her lips. The facial damage is probably from the tit harvesting in the field.

She notices me staring and hesitantly touches her lip, perhaps checking to see if it’s still there, to see if maybe I cut it off and ate it too. Not yet, I think. But soon.

Fear clouds her bloodshot eyes, and my tongue fills with saliva. Fear is the best seasoning on a woman; I can already taste it.

“It would be nice to go pee,” she says quietly.

“Then go pee,” I say.

Her pupils jump back and forth as she studies me, searching for a clue. I keep my expression blank.

Bravery dips into her mind, and she inches forward. Her head pops out of the cage.

Impatience stabs my body. I don’t want to do anything too soon though. I have to wait for the exact right moment. I step closer.

Another crawl forward. Her arms are out now.

I take another step.

She meets my eyes again. “Kent?” Her bottom lip quivers, adrenaline dancing frantically in her veins.

I lick my lips. “Yes, little one?”

“It would be wrong to force me to pee like an animal. You’re going to let me use the bathroom, right?”

“Of course,” I say. I tuck my hand behind my back and grip the cleaver’s handle. The bitch can’t see it. I bet she thinks she’s finally going to escape.

But I’m ready too.

“You’re not an animal. You’re human,” I add.

She’s human.

She’s only human.

Human meat.

My meat.

And I want to eat all of her.

She crawls the final inches out of the cage, and as soon as her bubbled ass is past the metal bars, I smash down the cleaver with every ounce of strength I have. The sharp blade hits the backside of her lower thigh, a few inches above the knee, slicing through the skin, the vessels, the nerves, the muscle, and into the bone.

Blood gushes like a fountain. The bitch falls onto her stomach; the sobs spew from her throat like a gurgling lava pit, and the cleaver is stuck in the bone. I howl with laughter. I didn’t think I’d be able to cut through the bone in one whack, but with two more whacks in quick succession, it’s completely cut off. I guess her meat has given me the strength I need. I step closer and she curls into herself, moaning in pain and trying to get away from me.

I need to work fast; if I hit one of the major arteries, I’ll only have a few minutes.

But I desperately want a taste first.

I pick up her leg and lick right over the bone. The sourness invades my tastebuds, my blood vessels expanding to better consume her energy. And that’s when I smell it: her rancid fear. It’s nasty, like a mix of armpit sweat and sewage. My nostrils flare, soaking up as much as I can. My dick spasms against my legs.

The bitch inches to one side and pulls herself forward in a pathetic attempt at an army crawl. She looks like a worm. Her good leg shoves her body toward a nearby cupboard, and she pulls herself up. Her face twists, pain shooting through what’s left of her body, but adrenaline is a funny thing. She’s doing so much more than I thought someone could do with a freshly amputated leg.

“You can’t run away,” I say, my laughter roaring. “You can’t do anything. What, little morsel? Are you going to crawl to safety?”

As she falls to the ground in her failed attempt to escape, I can’t help but smile. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I’m so attracted to Mona; I knew a stuck-up cunt like her would give me a good fight. She’s too stubborn to give up. My little morsel has the mindset of a wolf; she’s only just now finding out she’s trapped in a rabbit’s body.

With each of her movements, the adrenaline fades. Her will decreases, her limbs jerking. The little rabbit is finally in the wolf’s teeth.

I can’t have her dying on me yet.

I grab a fistful of her hair and drag her over to the kitchen. The cast iron pan stinks of charred metal, and smoke fills the air. I’m high on my own actions as I take in the blood. So much fucking blood. On the walls. On the laminate. On her skin. Though this time, it has nothing to do with a pig. It’s all Mona. Only Mona. She’s going to need serious recovery time after this.

For now, I’ll savor her life, and later, I’ll relish in her death.

After I slap the veterinary tourniquet on her thigh, I move to the cast iron. The metal sizzles against her thigh, but it’s so wet and fleshy it barely cauterizes anything. Her body goes completely limp, her mind and body unconscious. I push the pan to another area. The blood smokes, and the scent of seared meat wafts in the air. My mouth salivates. It smells fucking delicious, but no matter how difficult it is, I have to stay focused.

Heat the pan. Wait. Remove the pan. Press it to the flesh. Again and again until it’s completely closed up with burned flesh.

Finally, I power off the stove and remove the tourniquet. The mobile home reeks of barbecue. I make a mental note to sear part of her severed leg in a similar way and enjoy the meal later. Right now, my body wants something else.

I use the strength meant for Mona’s full body as I scoop her into my arms, but I almost toss her into the air. She’s so light now, it’s like she could fly out of my hands.

Less meat. Less muscle. Less strength.

More food. More meat. More control.

I kick open the back door. Outside, I bend her over the steps that lead up to the industrial meat grinder. She stirs and squints her eyes. Her face contorts. Her entire body must hurt, and fuck, it’s got to be confusing to wake up outside like this.

“Kent?” she asks. “The fuck?—”

I point up to the machine. “You see that?” I whisper. “I’m going to put you inside of it one day. Maybe your head,” I murmur. “Maybe I should do that right now.”

“Please!” she sobs. “Please, Kent. Don’t?—”

There’s that word again. Please. You’d never know that an entitled bitch could be broken down into common courtesies. I guess all it takes is a missing tit and a leg to get her manners straightened out.

I’ve never wanted to grind a woman up—not yet anyway—but she doesn’t know that. And if I want to keep her alive, I’ll need to go to the store soon. With her here, I obviously have enough to eat, but she needs food. Greens. Organic vegetables. Fruits. Berries. Everything to keep her meat tender and sweet.

I prop her waist up, bending her at the best angle; she’s too weak to fight me right now. Then I grab her hips and slide my dick inside of her wet pussy. Laughter rolls out of me. She claims she would never be into sexual cannibalism, but the fight-or-flight response activates, and suddenly the bitch is as wet as beef stew.

Her pussy walls clench me, contracting against my movements, and eventually, she’s quiet.

As I fuck her, I think about what I’ll do with her leg. I’ll smoke and sear some of it. With the rest, I can buy a rotisserie. Or maybe I’ll dig a fire pit and cook her flesh over the open flames.

A roast, maybe.

A roast sounds nice.