Page 53 of Morsel

I smear the rag over the counter absentmindedly. This is a part of Mona’s art project too. If she wants pictures of me cleaning, then I can accept that, as long as I get another bite.

I turn over my shoulder. “You said you brought me something?”

She pulls a small object from her purse. The box is lined with blue velvet, the kind of container that holds a diamond ring or an expensive wristwatch.

“It’s a present,” she murmurs. “For you.”

My nose wrinkles. “I like presents like your fingertips, babe, not watches or?—”

She opens the box. A paper towel drenched in blood is folded inside of it, and on top lies a stubby toe. The cut end of the toe is frayed, the flesh mangled and raw, and the nail is painted bright red. It reminds me of the recording lights on her cameras.

Blood drains from my head and goes straight to my cock, an erection raging through me. I’d prefer to cut it off myself, but this is good. This is definitely a good start.

I look at Mona and realize she’s keeping her weight to one side, favoring her right, giving herself time to heal. A limping woman is much easier to catch than a woman that can run.

My heart swells. She cut off her toe for me.

This is eternal fucking love.

A nagging sensation sews through my neck and worms its way into those pleasant thoughts. I swat it away like a mosquito, but it buzzes incessantly until I can’t ignore it: I wanted to be the one to cut off a part of her, and she took that away from me.

No, my brain argues. She did this for you. Be happy for once.

I am happy. I swear I am.

“You cut off your toe,” I gasp. I rub my dick through my pants. “Mona, you cut your toe?—”

She winks. “You were so worried about doing the right thing that I knew you wouldn’t?—”

I smash my lips to hers and silence her words before she says something that ruins this act of love between us. I don’t listen to the warnings that she thinks I’m not man enough to cut off her toes. I don’t listen to the voices whispering that she’s in control, that she’s still manipulating me. I don’t listen to any of that. I savor our kiss, my rock-hard dick smashed between us like a panini, because it’s good—no, it’s better than good. It’s euphoric to call her mine. I’ve never exchanged I-love-yous with a woman before, but this? Her toe? A present for me? That’s more than love.

Her mouth opens and lets me inside. The hint of toothpaste and the slightly sweet flavor of her tongue dances over my tastebuds. At the end of the kiss, bitterness leaks through, crowding my senses.

Meat-eater.

I pull back enough to speak, my words brushing her lips. “Don’t eat meat anymore. I want to taste you. Not other animals. Just you.”

“Is that a request or a command?” she asks quietly.

I don’t answer that question; I simply expect her obedience, like she expects it from me. If she wants to argue about her rights to eat animal meat, then I can explain the health benefits to her later.

I hold the back of her head, my fingers tangled in her black hair. My fingers massage her ears as I kiss down the column of her neck. She presses her pussy closer to my dick.

Each kiss, each nibble, each thrust of our bodies drops me deeper into a fantasy: the two of us living on the farm together. My raised human meat. My little morsel. A woman like Mona needs luxury. She said it herself though: a farm is a cannibal’s wet dream, and she can indulge me every once in a while. We can use the farm as our vacation home. We can even eat a person together. A second home like this could be a new way to jumpstart her creativity. Maybe I’ll even give her a part of me too.

I unbutton her blouse and bite the tips of her nipples. A pleasure-filled groan bursts through me.

“I still want those,” she laughs. With more of her breast meat in my mouth, I bite again, deeper this time, enough to break skin.

She cries into me and stuffs her nose in my neck. “At least let me film it.”

I suck the blood from her skin, savoring her metallic essence. It’s not dull and empty like the dried blood from the countertop, but deep and rich, the sting of raw cinnamon peppering every drop. My eyes roll into the back of my skull. I suck out more. She taps the back of my head like she wants me to stop.

Reluctantly, I let go of her nipple. Only because I can eat her toe now.

“Too bad I can’t milk you too,” I say.

“You dirty boy,” she says, and the filthy bitch flings her cunt up at me. I pull her leggings down and moan as I see the bandage wrapping around her ankle and winding obsessively around her missing toe, the second to last one. The childhood game with the toe piggies pops into my head, and my body warms as those words course through me: this little piggy had none. I’m not a little boy, and I don’t have none anymore. I have so much when it comes to Mona. My little morsel.

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