Page 38 of Morsel

“Why do you care?” I snap.

“A farm is a beautiful place to live when you’re into cannibalism,” she says.

I adjust myself, my palm running over the pre-cum staining my pants.

“It’s not a farm,” I say, but my dick throbs in disagreement. “It’s a field and a mobile home.”

“Think of the potential though,” Mona murmurs. “With this much land, you can have a human farm one day.”

I sigh, and she squeezes my hand. It’s been my dream to live on a farm and raise a woman for meat. A human farm is out of my grasp right now, though there’s no telling where the future will lead, especially if I have Mona by my side.

I clear my throat. I still don’t know if she sent the woman to record me. A thrill runs through me. I loved seeing that woman cower.

“Did you send someone to film me at work?” I ask.

Mona laughs, each cackle dripping from her mouth like torn rose petals falling to the ground.

“Why would I record you at work?” she asks.

I snarl. “I don’t know.”

“I have nothing to do with anything that happens at your work, I can assure you of that.” She drags her finger through the dust covering the picture’s glass. “Can I take this picture of your mother? I’ll bring it back.”

The woman in the picture isn’t my mother. I don’t even know who she is, but I guess we all probably come from the same original homo sapien couple.

I fixate on the wall, on the dustless circle where the picture frame once hung. My mind fills with my actual mother, lying on the dining table. Her legs spread. Parts of her stomach exposed. Chunks of her flesh carved from her skin like deep pockmarks.

“Do you think baby animals eat their mothers for survival too?” I ask in a daze. I don’t know why I asked that. It doesn’t sound like my own voice.

“Children always eat from their mothers,” Mona says. “Think of how much stress the body goes through with breastfeeding.”

Mona bends under the table, her belled breasts hanging down. They’re small, yet meaty. If her breasts were full of milk too, would they taste moist? Would milk make them juicier? Would they be like soup dumplings, sweetness bursting with each bite?

On top of the teal dining room table, a camera is aimed toward us, a red light blinking on top. She’s already recording.

The dining chair scuffs against the floor. Then Mona picks up a sealed black bucket and places it next to the camera. She removes the top. A giddy expression fills her face.

“Come. Look,” she says.

Inside, the reflective surface is dark, almost black, with the faintest tint of red. Mona dips her hand into the bucket, and when it comes out, her gloved fingers are soaked in thick, red liquid.

She touches my cheek. I shiver. It’s cold. Viscous. Possibly refrigerated before this.

Is it her blood?

No. It’s too much. She’d die. She can’t?—

“Pig’s blood,” Mona purrs. “I got it from the butcher this morning.”

The hairs on my skin rise. It’s not her blood. That’s good. She needs her blood to survive. Why am I disappointed though? She wants to play in animal blood. Should I be worried about that?

No, you fucking idiot, my brain argues. This is roleplay. This is good. The blood would be wasted otherwise, and like this, you give it a purpose.

That explanation feels forced though. I don’t know if it’s because it’s not her blood, or if it’s because it was her idea and not mine, but bathing in animal blood—even if the animals were already dead—is too close to real bloodshed, and I’m not sure how much I can handle when it comes to that. The temptations are too strong.

“Mona,” I say, my voice straining.

“Don’t be a scared little rabbit,” she whispers. “Just follow my lead.”

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