Page 42 of Morsel

I keep going. I don’t want to stop. Not when I can literally eat her like she’s pâté. I take a slice of bread from the bag, then pop it into the toaster.

“Butter knives?” I ask.

She points at a drawer. “In there.”

I pull the drawer out fully, then stare down at the contents. A serrated knife, a chef’s knife, and a cleaver are thrust inside of a clear plastic block, and two narrow organizers contain butter knives and steak knives. A steak knife isn’t the blade I need. All I need is a butter knife.

I grip the handle of a steak knife anyway.

A butter knife may not work for this, I tell myself. Knowing Mona’s current diet, the steak knives are likely used more, and therefore cleaner than the butter knives. And I can be gentle. I can treat her like a jar of jam. I’ve never broken a jar of food before.

The toaster pops. I place the slice on the countertop next to her, then kneel between her legs. She moves her hips, positioning herself so that I can spoon inside of her. I carefully dip the knife into her cunt. She beams down at me, so pleased with herself, so pleased with me. She knows I’m using a knife on her.

But she must not realize it’s a steak knife; otherwise, she wouldn’t be so smug.

I angle the utensil to the side like I’m scooping peanut butter. She giggles.

“Is that okay?” I ask.

“It reminds me of a speculum at the gynecologist’s office,” she says. “This is way better though.”

When I pull out the knife, a large clump of bloody lining clings to the edge of the blade, shining like a dark wine. I slather it on the toast.

I chomp into the treat. The first bite hits my lips and tongue; savory bread and her earthy flavors swim over my taste buds. My body throbs with pleasure.

“Fuck, Mona,” I say. “You taste so fucking good.”

She rubs the top of my head, her fingers combing my short hair. “Then be a good boy and eat me, love.”

My jaw flexes. A good boy. Like I’m her toy. Her slave. Her little bitch.

No. I can’t be mad. Not when she’s letting me eat her period blood on toast. I want this. I want Mona. I even want the parts of her that fight me for control. I want everything she has to offer, and if that means I have to relinquish control for the chance to eat her period blood, then I’ll be on my knees until her uterus is sucked dry.

I take another bite of the toast. This time though, the wheat dominates my palette. There’s something incomplete about this, isn’t there? I want Mona, but this isn’t it. Menstrual blood is always going to come out of her. I have nothing to do with it.

I want to eat her. All of her.

But I also want her pain.

Before I can question myself, I stick the knife back into her pussy. She coos in approval, then I push the knife deeper, and she grimaces.

“Wait,” she pants. “Hold on. What are you?—”

The knife pierces the crust of her cervix, like cutting into a firm potato, and she screams, the cry raking through her and vibrating into me. I have no idea how deep I actually went, but liquid oozes out of her pussy, and I salivate.

It’s blood. Red and fresh and vibrant against her pale thighs.

My dick is like a fucking baton right now, ready to knock someone unconscious, and the fucked-up part is that I want to hurt Mona like that. I want to choke her. I want to watch the will to live drain from her eyes.

I lick my lips, my mouth filling with spit. I want to taste her blood. Fresh blood. Straight from the tap.

She didn’t cut herself this time. She didn’t bleed on her monthly cycle. No. I cut her this time. Me, the predator.

My appetite grows. As my lips near her pussy, I clench my jaw shut.

I just hurt Mona. I’m not supposed to hurt her.

This is supposed to be safe. Pretend. What the fuck was I thinking?

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