Page 16 of Morsel

He wiggles his tongue like he’s licking an ice cream cone. I laugh, then head to the supervisor. I fumble an excuse about indigestion, and though his shoulders flinch like he doesn’t believe me, he lets me go. Health code rules come in handy in situations like this. I change into a button-up shirt and get in my cargo van.

I may not be eating Mona, but I am serious about this. I’m even willing to sign a contract. And if I drive fast enough, I’ll be the first one in the movie theater, ready to watch her creation and become a part of her art.

Chapter 7

When I step through the office doors, Mona stands. A wide grin stretches across her face. She takes the papers from me, then scans for my initials and signatures.

“Good,” she says. “Everything looks perfect. Do you want a copy?”

I shake my head. She grabs my hand. A chill runs through me at the physical contact, a mix of nauseous dread and excitement brewing in my veins. This isn’t a hookup anymore. This is a commitment to her art and to our shared sexual interest. This may be the best thing that’s ever happened to me, or it may be my worst mistake. The adrenaline spikes in my veins, pushing me to keep going.

We’re doing this.

I have to do this.

“Follow me,” she says.

Mona strides across campus, and I follow after her, my fingers tingling with numbness. This is a trap. Even now, she’s leading me, not the other way around, and it’s another red flag that I should listen to.

I ignore those warnings. I focus on her. This is what I’ve been yearning for, the chance to have a connection with someone who understands me. So what if it’s a trap? Something real may come out of it.

In another building, Mona leads me down the stairs to a dark theater. Multiple rows of tiered seating face black velvet curtains. She pulls the cord at the side, and the fabric opens, then frames a dim screen.

No one else is in the theater.

“Get comfortable,” she says. Another order.

My stomach hardens as she runs up the aisle to the projector and clicks through the buttons. Those warning bells keep chiming, the volume increasing as each second passes. If someone comes in here, and it’s just us, what will they think? Will they know she invited me, or will they think I’m preying on her? Is this a trap to make it seem like I’m her abuser?

Why does she keep telling me what to do?

Why do I keep obeying her?

“I thought there would be more students,” I say.

“Private screening.”

Sourness coats my tongue. I rub my forehead. If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.

Even though I signed those papers, I don’t have to do this. I decide my place in this world.

And yet I can’t make myself exit the building.

“Sit,” she says.

Like a stupid little dog, I find a seat in the middle row, in the direct center of the theater. Black-and-white images flicker across the screen. Once I see Mona slinking down the aisle, I lose focus on the film.

She points at the screen. “Watch.”

I clench my jaw, but I do as I’m told.

The projector plays a video of a group of people walking in a single file line. All of them help carry a long stick with a woman attached to it. My balls tense, pressure swelling in my groin.

“What is this?” I ask.

Mona shushes me, and before I know it, she’s on her knees in front of me. She reaches for my belt buckle.

My shoulders stiffen. “What are you?—”

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