Page 3 of Morsel

I slap the piece of raw meat on her stomach—one of the only places that’s completely bare—and she wiggles, her lips coiling into a smile.

“So cool,” she coos. “It feels good.”

My jaw clenches. I don’t engage. I avoid her eyes as I use the steak knife on the meat. Translucent red juices run down her skin. The serrated edge of the blade cuts through the filet, hitting her stomach, and she jolts and moans like she’s performing for a camera.

“Hurt me,” she whimpers.

My upper lip curls. It’s a line meant for a stage show. Is she making fun of me?

“Has your food ever made a noise like that?” I ask flatly.

“I’m just having so much fun, baby.” She giggles. Fury clouds my vision, and she licks her lips. “Come on, baby. Eat me. Eat me like you’re the big bad wolf.”

I drop the knife, then rub my forehead so hard that I see stars. Meat doesn’t speak. Meat doesn’t respond like it’s a joke to them. Meat doesn’t act like I’m some kind of freak to be laughed at in the middle of a circus.

Meat simply exists. Meat is ready to provide for you. Meat gives.

Most escorts are like this though. They indulge through theatrics. Sometimes, I can get past the obnoxious acting; today, when I’m so close to meeting my dream girl, my patience is thin. I just need this to satiate me until tomorrow.

This bitch can’t even do that.

“What?” the brunette asks, suddenly aware that I’m upset. “What is it?”

I take several hundred-dollar bills out of my wallet, exactly what I owe her. I can’t tell her what to do, but I can end this exchange before my temper gets out of control. I’m not an animal, and I refuse to let my anger control me.

They always bolt anyway.

“I asked for someone who wouldn’t mock me,” I say, a hard edge to my tone.

She sits up and clutches the filet to her stomach like she can salvage this. “You really just wanted me to pretend to be dead?”

I hand her the money. “Lie there. Don’t speak. It’s not hard.”

Thoughts ricochet behind her eyes as she processes my words. I shouldn’t have said anything. They always get offended. But for fuck’s sake, she’s the one who doesn’t understand simple directions. The fucking idiot.

She snatches the money, and the steak slaps onto the table. She rolls her eyes.

“If you wanted someone to play dead, it’d be cheaper to fuck a piece of raw meat,” she scoffs.

I glance in the direction of the industrial meat grinder. I suppose that’s true. It’s my go-to when the daydreams are too hard to contain.

I wanted someone alive tonight, a woman with a beating heart. Like Mona.

The brunette pulls her dress over her head. The meat juices soak into the fabric. She stomps to the front door.

“I’m a sex worker,” she says. “I’m good at playing pretend, but I’m not a piece of meat.”

I shake my head. “Good for you.”

The door slams shut behind her. Within a few seconds, her car’s engine dissipates, and then there’s only the hum of the generator and the soft cries of the insects outside.

She wouldn’t understand my fantasies. Practically no one can.

But there’s a chance Mona will.

Chapter 2

I eat my raw steak with one hand while I jack off with the other. When I was a kid, I used to get sick from consuming raw meat, mostly chicken, but it hasn’t bothered me in years. I guess I’ve built up a tolerance for it, just like I’m numb to the ridiculously fake sex workers out there.

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