Page 40 of Morsel

She pumps my dick with her cunt, forcing me closer to orgasm. The blood dashes across her naked, pale body and paints her red. It’s not her blood, but it’s so close, and I can’t help it; I’m transfixed.

This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. I can’t let this go any further, but I want to?—

“Stop thinking,” she yells. “Stop thinking and fuck me.”

My mind erases. I grab her hips, my nails digging into her flesh. Mona is everything I want, and this is what I’ve always dreamed of: a woman willing to give me things I can savor, a woman who knows what she wants too, a woman who will let me conquer her.

If I do this—if I go through with this relationship—I know what will happen. I won’t be able to help myself. Pig’s blood isn’t enough, but if I try harder, if I do this right, I can control myself. I can keep Mona alive. I can show her I’m the cannibal she’s always dreamed of, and neither of us has to give up who we are to find a mate. By some act of magic, we found each other. Cannibal and flesh. The conqueror and the conquered. The all-consuming god and the precious little morsel of meat.

But as my orgasm nears, a thought worms its way into my brain. I try to shove it out. I try to think of cavemen and decapitated women’s heads, but my dick goes soft inside of her, and the thought grows until I can’t think of anything else anymore.

Mona is the one who forced me to fuck her right now.

She’s the one conquering me.

Chapter 15

Another week passes. Mona texts me every day. I do my best to ignore my phone. The irritation crests over my skin in goosebumps, the pressure building like a volcano each time my phone vibrates. Every text eats away at me like vultures consuming a flattened dog.

How am I supposed to ignore a woman like her?

Finally, I check the messages. Come over, the most recent text reads. I need you to fuck me and eat me.

I snarl at those half-assed words. “Eat me” is tacked on to the end, like she wants sex, but she knows I’ll only be enticed if I can roleplay with cannibalism too.

Maybe that’s true. Maybe I don’t want to play by her rules anymore.

Busy, I text back.

You’re always busy, she responds.

I shake my head, ready to toss my phone across the room, but the device vibrates again.

Come eat my blood, she sends. My period is heavy today.

My lips part. Tension curls around my groin, tingling over my veiny shaft and numbing me all the way to the inner tissue.

Period blood.

A period is monthly. If I eat her menstrual blood, I’m not causing any harm. I’ve done it before.

This time will be better though. Wet. Hot. Viscous. And straight from the source.

And like a pathetic little boy, I give in.

About an hour later, she opens the front door. A short pencil skirt clings to her hips, and her small breasts are pushed up in a lacy bra.

She dressed to seduce me.

I hate lingerie. It reminds me of the obnoxious sex workers, and the tricks they performed to finish our sad dates as quickly as possible. But, fuck me, knowing that Mona is bleeding under that skimpy fabric makes my stomach growl.

“I knew you’d come,” she says with a smirk.

I grit my teeth, but she grabs my hand, and I follow her.

In the kitchen, Mona hoists herself up on the dark countertop. The skirt bunches around her hips like crumpled plastic wrapping. Her knees part, and the white tampon string lies on the marble surface. A faint reflection of the plug’s tether echoes in the polished stone.

Her plump labia are stuck together like slices of deli meat in a sandwich, and the menstrual blood smeared on her inner thighs reminds me of tomato sauce decorating the bottom of a pasta bowl. My cock presses into my zipper.

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