Morsel

Chapter 35

Chapter 35

Then she’s just a head and a torso.

Two days ago, after her final arm amputation, she stopped eating. Even when I used the funnel, she managed to vomit and heave until I grew tired of trying to feed her. At least with self-starvation, there’s less shit and piss to deal with. I don’t have to clean her as much anymore.

Now, her face is sunken, her eyes yellow, the last layers of black makeup finally washed away. The bits of her limbs, the red and white nubbins of bone and flesh, are bound in twine, trussed like a fine roast. She’s decadent like this, her skin bulging between each length of string. A cannibal’s favorite lingerie, the only kind I gladly approve of.

I rub olive oil over her naked body and massage her muscles just how she likes it.

She stares straight ahead, never bothering to look me in the face anymore. My little morsel is stubborn until her very last breath, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I used to think that I would take my time with her, savoring each bite. Now I know that one bite isn’t enough to satiate my hunger. I want to kill her. I always have. Killing is as much of a part of this as eating and fucking are, and it wasn’t until just before she hurt me for the last time that I fully accepted who I am.

And she’s no longer mouthy without a tongue.

The meat fits perfectly on my countertop. I turn her on her side, then begin rubbing the oil onto her back and ass crack. As I reach her neck, I wrap my hands around her throat, my mind racing with ideas.

What if I cut off her head?

I can keep it as a centerpiece for the dining table. I can marvel at her beauty as I eat other women who will always be lesser than her. I can keep my one true love with me forever.

I pinch her cheek. Her nostrils huff. I let the skin go. Even though I like the decapitation idea, there’s not much flesh on her head, and if I want her to truly experience everything I have to offer her, then that requires her brain. Maybe I’ll decapitate the other women.

“We really could have been something, you know?” I say. I shake the garlic powder all over her until she’s covered in yellow dust. Next, I season her with ground white pepper and onion powder. I’m craving something savory for her torso. “But you had to ruin it with your fucked-up lies.”

She blinks slowly, and I know she heard me. It irritates me though, her lack of reaction. The urge to stab her stomach so she finally makes a noise burns inside of me, but she’ll scream soon. She won’t be able to deny her terror when faced with the higher temperatures.

Maybe it isn’t her fault we ended up like this. Even when I told myself I didn’t want her to die, I don’t know if I could have kept her alive for as long as I had planned. My hunger probably would’ve taken over.

I pick her up and place her seasoned body in the roasting pan. Luckily for me, she’s short and small. With her body trussed, only her head sticks out of the pan. Still, I’ll have to maneuver her into the oven. I’ll make her fit.

Blood rushes to my groin. There’s no point in keeping her now. But I can fuck her one last time, and I can season the inside of her cunt too.

I pick up the pan. Instead of carrying her to the oven, I place her on the dining table. I unzip my pants. My weighty cock flops out. I rub the oil and spices on my shaft. She scrunches her face, and the anticipation shudders through her torso.

My dick slides inside of her. The spices add to the friction of her textured pussy. My eyes roll to the back of my head. She squeezes me hard. Tears wash over the edges of her face, leaving empty streams in their wake. I slap her cheeks. She flinches, her cunt constricting tighter around me.

“Careful,” I murmur. “You’ll ruin your seasoning.”

A wail rips from her throat, garbled and malformed, and I swear, my dick grows twice its size, my balls contracting with the need for release.

“Fuck, that feels good,” I say. “Keep squeezing me, little morsel. Give me a reason to keep you alive.”

Panic flutters in her stumps, wrestling with the twine, her will to live edging to the surface. Then the defiant little morsel relaxes her cunt and drops her eyes to the side.

So the meat thinks it can loosen its pussy, denying me pleasure?

I’ll fix that.

I cover her mouth and pinch her nose with my hand, and though her pussy muscles tighten for me once, the meat forces itself to relax and lets go of that pressure.

I lick my lips. “I guess it’s time for you to get in the oven then, huh?”

A desperate cry finally erupts from her throat, and it fuels me, that pressure finally boiling over her body and into mine. The orgasm shoots out of me and fills her cunt.

I pull out. The white liquid mixes with the yellow oil, dribbling over her blue stitches. And with all of her pussy lips and clit removed just last night, my mouth waters, marveling at her battered cunt. Using the olive oil like this is so much better than when I fucked her with her head shoved inside of the meat grinder.

I lift the roasting pan again. The moaning resumes, which quickly morphs into cries, but the bitch can’t even argue now, and besides, meat doesn’t speak. Her body twitches, and she gives a surprisingly strong thrust to the side, an attempt to avoid the final meal. But her torso merely dances in the pan like a rocking chair. I adjust her position and keep my hand fixed firmly on what’s left of her cunt. She stays stuck in the pan after that.

I open the oven. It’s cold, and I didn’t preheat it on purpose. Maybe it’ll fuck with the meat, but eating is only half of the fun. The other part is listening to her come to terms with her death as the oven’s temperature rises.

I move the oven shelf to the lowest rack. Then, as I place the roasting pan inside of the oven, her head bangs into the side. I slant her body at an angle, and though her black hair spills over the edge of the oven, she fits well enough. I’m lucky it’s a deep oven; only her forehead is touching the side now. I’m not sure if the contact with the walls will sear her flesh, but I suppose that if it does, it’ll give the meat more texture.

I wonder how long it’ll take before I can smell her cooking flesh.

I crouch down beside the oven’s opening, then fix her hair so that every part of her fits inside of her final cage. Her sniffles echo between the metal walls.

“Don’t worry, my sweet morsel,” I say. “I’ll always keep a part of you with me.”

I close the door and twist the dial up to four hundred degrees Fahrenheit. I sit on the countertop. The spices and oil stain my pants; I don’t mind it though. Right now, I’m the one looking into her cage, watching her squirm around like an animal, and it’s so fucking right.

I can’t help it; I stroke my cock, gently this time. Her dried pussy juices and the leftover cooking ingredients flake off of my skin, like I’m a snake or some other molting beast, but I keep going. I’ll have to edge myself while she cooks. I don’t want to come yet.

I’ll have to leave this mobile home soon and move onto the next destination. But maybe it doesn’t matter if you live in a state with open-minded, sexually adventurous women. Maybe you can live anywhere; you just need sedatives, restraints, and a sharp cleaver.

Soon, the wailing starts, and it’s muffled by the oven. I jerk myself harder, memorizing the moment. The temperature rises even more, the heat seeping through the cracks in misty puffs of steam, and her cries grow quiet. Eventually, she’s silent again. She may be unconscious from the heat, or she may be dead.

The smoke of her burned flesh—probably her scalp and hair touching the oven’s wall—caresses the kitchen. I stare at the oven and clutch the crown of my shaft, imagining my little morsel slowly dying inside of the metal walls, cooking just for me. The savory scent of roasting meat fills the mobile home, and I accidentally come again.

I keep my dick out and continue stroking myself. I stay in the kitchen while she cooks. I don’t leave her.

I’ll never leave her.