Page 10 of Morsel

Brown hair. Brown eyes. Not Mona. Someone forgettable.

They kiss each other’s cheeks. “Gorgeous as ever,” the man says. His name is Arty, I guess.

“Mona is doing so well, isn’t she?” the woman says.

“Surpasses every bar, every time.”

“Agreed.”

The woman glimpses in my direction, a coyish smile aimed at me. I smile back. I often have that effect on women. They want me.

Then she steps closer to Arty, like she doesn’t want me to hear their conversation, and I get the sense that even if I’m attractive, she’s afraid of offending me. Like she’s scared. I narrow my eyes, heightening that primal power over her, pride flooding my veins in an overwhelming heat.

Suddenly, I break myself away from them. If she’s one of Mona’s friends and she wants privacy, I’ll give it to her.

“I hate to do this to you, but can you walk me to my car?” she whispers. “After seeing this—what these women go through—I don’t want to walk alone. I figure the boogeyman inspiration can scare away any creepy jerk.”

“Boogeyman creator,” the man corrects her. “Of course, I’ll protect you. You don’t have to ask me twice.” He turns to me and shakes my hand with a surprisingly firm grip. “It was nice speaking with you.”

I grip his hand back harder. His posture never changes, as if my show of dominance doesn’t bother him.

He links arms with the woman, and as they walk away, her words repeat in my mind: what they go through.

Who was she talking about?

There’s probably a plaque explaining the exhibit somewhere. I don’t care enough to ask. Instead, I stare at the mirrors again. The junkyard scraps. The pieces of trash. There must’ve been a mirror in the bathroom too. I don’t remember seeing it though. As soon as I stepped past that oversized door, I was fixated on Mona.

Her body. Her flesh.

I’m not a cannibal. It’s wrong to eat people, and I know that. If anyone finds out you ate any part of a human, you’ll live your life in jail. You can’t eat other people in prison for long before they put you in solitary. Anyway, eating other men doesn’t interest me; their meat is too firm, and I’ve never been into autocannibalism.

But there’s a part of me that’s always been fascinated by the idea of eating a woman. As haunting as she may seem, a woman like Mona is attractive, and that makes her meat even better.

I stop by the bathroom. The sign has been replaced with one that reads, Vacant. Inside, the candles are blown out. The tub is empty. The floor is dry.

She’s done, then. She’s not waiting for anyone else who answered her ad.

It was all for me.

Me.

Warmth dances in my lower stomach. I don’t know why I like that. After years of solitude, I guess it’s comforting to know that even if it was an art performance, she did it for me. And that lets me entertain the idea that my little meat hole wants to be eaten by me. Only me.

I finish the beer, then take a final scan around the gallery to search for her. A crowd surrounds her like pillars guarding a prized treasure. She tells them an animated tale. Her cheeks are flushed, still cooling from the bath.

She locks eyes with me and lifts her hand, her fingers rippling slightly. A wave. An acknowledgement. I nod back as warmth blooms in my chest.

I…want…more.

I motion her over, and like a good pet, she comes to me. That inner heat settles firmly within my torso. I take a deep breath, and the inhalation draws her into my very soul, a boiling scalding essence which is as much a part of me as my cum is now a part of her.

“Did you enjoy the show?” she asks.

Old bath water, wine, and sweat waft from her skin, and I want to lick every inch of her. Drink every drop. Eat every bite until there’s nothing left.

I want to devour her.

“You’re even more handsome in the light,” she purrs.

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