Morsel

Chapter 33

Chapter 33

After the first leg amputation, Mona slept for a day. She needed it. And during that time, between sharpening my knives, getting rid of her phone, removing the skin of her leg, roasting the flesh, and eating every single scrap from the bone, I decided that once she was up for it, my little morsel could move around the home as much as she wanted. I even got her a walker. I like the idea of giving her a false sense of autonomy. It seemed fair when she had given me fake meat.

And it’s not like she can run away.

When she wakes up, she stays in bed for a while with her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. It’s obvious she’s awake—you don’t go from snoring with a slack mouth to “sleeping” with silent nostrils and pinched lips—but eventually, she accepts my gift and finds her wobbly balance with the walker.

I wait for her in the kitchen and clean the blender in the sink. The little morsel appears naked in the hallway, her mouth-watering flesh completely exposed for my viewing pleasure. She leans her weight forward, then shoves the walker a few inches ahead. Her balance is shit though, and she teeters like a bobble-headed toy.

As she ambles forward, she doesn’t turn in my direction.

My jaw ticks. Seeing her struggle like this should arouse me, but this rude behavior gets on my nerves.

She can’t even look at me?

I can understand where she’s coming from though. It must be hard to be respectful to someone when they cut off your leg before you’re ready.

“Good morning, little morsel,” I say. I dry my soapy hands on a towel, then lift a full glass. “I made you some breakfast.”

Her head swivels, then latches onto the green smoothie in the raised glass. Her upper lip twitches. Spinach, pineapple, coconut milk, strawberries, tofu, and a special ingredient just for her.

“I added your favorite protein,” I say. “My semen.”

A dry heave gurgles up her throat. Her lips clamp shut, keeping the potential vomiting at bay. Finally, she straightens herself, then gives me her best pleading, watery eyes.

“Kent,” she whispers. “Can’t you give me something else? You know I hate?—”

My ears fizzle, and my vision reddens. Her lips move. I don’t hear her anymore.

I’m giving her freedom. I purchased a mobility assistance tool, though she won’t need it for much longer. I even prepared a meal for her. I give and give and give.

And she still thinks she can disrespect my courtesies?

I rip a wide silicone straw from the kitchen drawer, then slam it into the smoothie. I never had any use for a straw before; it was another purchase I made for her. With all the shit I’ve done, you’d think she’d be a little more appreciative.

I stomp forward. My lips widen into a grin. My gait is furious, each step pounding into the floor. Mona’s knuckles blanch against the handles of her walker.

“Drink it,” I say cheerily. Mona stares at me. Her refusal isn’t verbal; it’s there in her body language. The cunt thinks she has a say in her nutritional intake. Now, she’s the stupid one.

This smoothie is better for her body. Better for the meat. And I’m doing it all for her.

“Drink it,” I order. My voice is chipper, but the words are harsh. My chin drops, and as I try to smile again, I bare my teeth.

Mona bows her head, the tension finally getting to her. Then she bends forward and wraps her lips around the straw. The sides of the silicone pinch together under her suction, and my shoulders relax. The spinach will flush out her system, and the pineapple will help bring out the sweetness that’s buried underneath the bitterness of her past carnivorous diet.

“That’s it,” I say. I salivate, my eyes glued to her sucking lips. “That’s my good little meat hole.”

She sneers at me over the straw, seething with visible rage. The straw inflates; she’s not drinking anymore.

I scrunch my nose. “Come on, little morsel,” I say, encouraging her. “Keep drink?—”

She smacks the glass out of my hand. The glass shatters. The smoothie splashes down and paints the laminate in ugly green globs.

I gawk at the floor, my jaw hanging.

What does she think she’ll get out of spilling the smoothie?

Why did she do it?

What’s the purpose of being that defiant when she knows that I own her now?

Mona tightens her palms on her walker, and her spine straightens into the air.

“I am not your meat hole,” she snarls.

My shoulders vibrate, and my teeth clamp shut. Everything around me spins like a carousel until I can’t concentrate on anything but Mona’s complete and utter disrespect.

I have to teach her a lesson.

I yank the cleaver from the knife block. Mona gasps and moves snail-like inches across the mobile home. Her escape is slow, too slow, and so fucking clumsy, and after I finish this next punishment, her abilities will continue to decrease. She will barely be able to fight me, and that loss will be her fault.

I don’t care right now though. I’m too greedy. I need her fucking pain.

I ram the blade through the air. The cleaver smashes into her arm, a few inches down from her shoulder joint, cracking right through the bone.

It’s the same hand she used to spill the drink.

On the ground, she wriggles like a cockroach stuck on its back. Desire floods my veins, my body vibrating with built-up lust. I’ve been holding back and waiting to let her heal. If we did as much as I wanted, she’d be on my dinner table right now. I’ve been giving her space to get used to our new pattern. I guess some sad part of me was still hopeful that we could build a long, happy life together, carnivore and meat, but I can’t stop myself now.

I want to eat everything inside of her, even her fear.

“Not so fucking proud now, are you?” I growl.

I pick her up like a sack of potatoes and clutch her torso to my side, slinging her sideways. The bitch kicks and fights with the limbs she’s got left. I grip her with so much pressure that she whines, her sniveling cries surging straight to my dick. I’m hard—so fucking hard, stars fleck my vision—and I won’t be able to do anything the right way until I release this tension.

I throw her on the bed, and the blood soaks into the comforter, the sheets, and the mattress. I should’ve gotten a better mattress protector before I kidnapped her. Now, the bed is ruined. I don’t care though.

Taking the severed arm, I cut a diagonal hole inside of the bicep, then I pull my dick out of my pants. The hot, fleshy insides swallow part of my shaft, but it’s not deep enough for the full length. I lock eyes with Mona. Her energy fades, and my limbs buzz with need.

The arm flesh is lifeless. There’s no struggle with it.

I want to feel her scream.

I cinch the tourniquet around the arm stump as fast as I can, then I mount the bed and shove my dick inside of her pussy. Her scared little cunt constricts around my cock, and it’s like my head instantly severs from my body, my mind in the clouds as I look down on us. I see her, my little morsel. I see the savory fear and sweet desperation mixing on her face, and it gives me life. It gives me energy. It gives me so much strength that I don’t know why I didn’t accept this part of myself sooner.

I can give as much as I want to her, and she may reject it. But the fact is she has no choice; she must give me her meat now. I’ve got her right where I want her.

Her arm flails, her nails scraping at my chest. She kicks her leg, and the thigh stump twitches, the phantom limb fighting me too. She should be unconscious from the physical trauma, but no, my little morsel fights like a wounded beast. Her hips thrust forward in an attempt to throw me off of her, but it’s no use. She doesn’t even have two matching limbs to fight me anymore, and it’s entertaining that her brain still thinks she can try. As much as I hate her, there’s a part of me that’s proud right now. Proud that I picked such a stubborn, feisty little cunt. Proud that I knew her potential, even early on.

I can admit it to myself now: she’s exactly the kind of fighter I’ve always dreamed of.

My hands scoop against her fresh arm stump, gathering as much spilled blood as I can, and though there’s a tourniquet stopping the flow, I’m still able to lift a few drops to my mouth. It stains my teeth, my lips, my neck, and it’s so much better than menstrual blood—this is fuller, richer, spicier—and yet, there’s something off. A missing secret ingredient, and I know what it is. I hadn’t realized what it was until now. It’s something I need more than her fresh blood.

Her eyes go dark, unconscious again, and we both know her future.

Drinking her blood from the veins will only quench my thirst for so long. Eating her roasted leg can feed me, but it doesn’t completely satisfy me. Even this—taking her limbs, one at a time—even this isn’t enough.

Eating her living body will taste only so good.

I have to eat her and kill her.

Until then, my hunger will never be satisfied.