Page 26 of Morsel

“Do it,” she whines. “I need to come?—”

The hunger rises inside of me. With two fingers massaging her meat sleeve, I swirl my tongue around her swollen clit, puffy from arousal or me—or both—and she tastes so good. Like a tender medallion sprinkled with freshly crushed peppercorns. Like a polpette drowning in garlic. Like a raw, meaty tongue dipped in stomach acid.

Her hips twitch, nearing that final peak, and I don’t know if it’s my skill or if she’s already worked up from dinner. I keep forcing her into that abyss. My fingers jab inside of her, and my lips suction that meaty clit until she’s convulsing around me and coming like a beast. Her legs wrap around my skull as if she’s a praying mantis about to pop off my head and eat it.

As she comes down, I scoop out her juices and lick my fingers clean. I moan as I savor the subtly sour, natural taste of her.

She breathes heavily, still lying on the counter. I rest my head on her stomach and listen to her digest. Her belly gurgles and whines, a protest of the filet she’s currently digesting. Even her internal organs know she doesn’t need meat anymore.

I decide right then she’s going to begin a new vegetarian diet. I’ll stop spending my money at the butcher shop and start spending my paychecks on organic produce for her. I’ll buy her the best fruits and vegetables.

We don’t have to talk about her new vegetarian diet yet though.

She hops off of the countertop.

“Stand there,” she says. I move where she wants, then check her camera. She probably doesn’t want me to accidentally block the lens.

She fiddles with one of the kitchen drawers, and I suck the droplets of her drying juices from my hands and eat her arousal like she licked up the filet’s blood at the restaurant.

My stomach growls. I’m still hungry.

Mona holds up a utensil. A steak knife.

My jaw drops open, and she sits on the counter and spreads her legs. Her pussy oozes more clear juices onto the countertop as she brings the blade to her thigh, right below my bite mark. The blade knicks her skin, and the blood beads along the seam of broken flesh.

My dick rages as panic flares inside of me.

That’s blood. Real fucking blood. Blood that she needs to survive. Blood that I can’t have. If I go overboard, I may ruin this relationship before it truly begins, and I can’t let that happen.

But my stomach growls angrily. I want to taste her blood.

I want to taste her.

“Drink me.” She points down between her feet. “Kneel before me, love, and drink my blood.”

Conflict ripples inside of me and clogs my throat. This is some vampire queen shit, but we’re not acting in a movie or television show.

This is real. Mona is bleeding. She cut herself.

For me.

She cut herself to feed me.

It’s all for me.

And I’m so fucking hungry.

“T-this is wrong,” I stutter. “This is real, Mona.”

“Come on, love,” she says. I take another step closer, and her voice taunts me. “It’s only a little blood.”

My breath catches in my throat. “I can’t?—”

“I want you to do it,” she says, a hint of familiar anger appearing in her voice. “Are you going to deny me?”

When the sex workers made fun of me or when girlfriends told me I was messed up, I hated them, and I hated myself even more. I hated that I was a freak who liked something as disturbing as eating a woman, and I hated how those freakish desires left me alone. Does Mona feel like that too? Is she isolated? Does she think I’m mocking her?

The blood droplets pool on Mona’s skin, and my dick grows painfully hard, my balls contracting against me. This isn’t right; at the same time, I don’t want to disappoint her. I’ve tasted her period blood, and now, I’m curious. So fucking curious that I need to know if her blood will taste different when it’s fresh from the source.

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