Page 36 of Morsel

“What about you?” the new guy cuts in. “Have you ever shown a pussy who owns it?”

It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me. He’s in the same white jumper as we are, but there are no safety glasses hanging out of his pocket or on his collar. The supervisor is a stickler with safety rules. How did this guy get away with that?

“What Kent and I say about chicks is our business,” Jerry says. “The fuck kind of question is that anyway?”

“A question of complete domination,” the new guy says. He nods at me. “Have you ever beat up a pussy before? Made it raw? Made the woman fight? Take away her agency?”

Agency? The word is off. Stiff. Like cardboard. A buzzword he’s been hanging onto.

But why do I get the feeling he’s attacking me?

“All girls like it a little rough,” Jerry says. “Right, Kent?”

“A little, sure,” the new guy says. “What about when they beg you to stop?”

Jerry forces a laugh, like he’s trying to break the tension. “This chick wanted me to tie her up once,” he says. A few other workers laugh too, and I bob my head. Jerry howls. “She was a real freak!”

“Sometimes I get the urge to tie them to a bed and force them to beg for mercy,” the guy says as he examines me. “Don’t you?”

He bares his teeth, and I swear, it’s like he’s insinuating I did something wrong, like I’m the guilty offender here when he’s the one confessing these violent tendencies.

I straighten myself in my seat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I bet you do,” he says. “I bet you know exactly what I’m talking about. I bet you like chaining them to the floor.”

I snarl, my nostrils flaring. I may have chained a sex worker to the oven, but that doesn’t count. I don’t like being accused, and I certainly don’t like the fact that he’s trying to corner me.

I zero in on a woman in the corner of the room, sitting alone at a table with her smartphone camera lens aimed at us. Like she expects me to do something violent. Her next viral video.

She’s wearing the standard uniform jumper too. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A completely unremarkable face, and yet there’s something familiar about her. She’s fixated on the phone’s screen, her lips pulled back slightly, greedy for my next action.

She thinks she’s smarter than me, doesn’t she?

“Are you fucking recording me?” I ask. I stomp past the new guy and corner the recording bitch. “You think you can record me like I’m some kind of freak?”

Her face drops with fear, her skin pale.

“I-I’ll delete. I swear,” she stammers. “I’m sorry?—”

I yank the phone from her hands and smash it into the ground. The screen shatters into a million pieces.

The room falls silent.

The woman gawks at me, her mouth hanging open, her wide eyes full of tears. Full of fear.

My groin surges awake. The agitation dissipates, replaced by adrenaline and desire.

She’s afraid of me.

I storm out of the break room and through the main floor. I grab a chicken breast out of a bin, stuff it in my pocket, and find the quickest path to the storage area in the back. The need pulsates inside of me, and until I get rid of it, I won’t be able to think straight. I unbutton my jumper uniform, pull out my dick, then wrap the lukewarm meat around my cock. I groan, the slick juices coating me, and pleasure shoots through my spine. It’s like fucking a woman’s gaping wound.

If the supervisor finds out about me breaking that girl’s phone, I’ll probably get written up, or maybe even fired, but the memory of the look in her eyes sends me soaring above the clouds, and I can’t contemplate the future of my job.

I can only think of her fear.

The woman’s fear was tangible, there on my tongue. Like she knew I could kill her. Like she knew, just from a single look, that I wanted to eat her and watch her die.

My chest tightens, my skin sensitive and itchy. It should be Mona I’m thinking about, not some forgettable brown-haired stranger. I scrunch my eyes and change the image until I see Mona cowering underneath me.

---