Page 81 of Morsel

“You’re right,” I say in a low voice. My neck tingles, and those nerves pinch down my sides, reaching all the way to my balls. “A cage isn’t a suitable place for my little morsel.”

She cracks her head to the side. She’s listening, but she knows not to fully trust me anymore.

“Keep your eyes on the ground,” I say.

The submissive little animal does, and I leave her for a minute. In the kitchen, I grab the cleaver and tuck it inside my back pocket. Then I turn on the stove burner to its maximum heat setting and put a cast iron pan on it to get hot.

Back in the bedroom, the livestock continues to do as it’s told. Eyes on the floor. Obedient. Submissive. Silent. My perfect meat.

“Come out, pretty girl,” I say as I unlock the cage. “I’ll bite, but it won’t be that bad. I promise.”

Her head subtly shakes. When she looks up, her bottom lip is swollen, snot is crusted around her nostrils, and dried blood is caked in a thin stream from her nose, down over her lips. The facial damage is probably from the tit harvesting in the field.

She notices me staring and hesitantly touches her lip, perhaps checking to see if it’s still there, to see if maybe I cut it off and ate it too. Not yet, I think. But soon.

Fear clouds her bloodshot eyes, and my tongue fills with saliva. Fear is the best seasoning on a woman; I can already taste it.

“It would be nice to go pee,” she says quietly.

“Then go pee,” I say.

Her pupils jump back and forth as she studies me, searching for a clue. I keep my expression blank.

Bravery dips into her mind, and she inches forward. Her head pops out of the cage.

Impatience stabs my body. I don’t want to do anything too soon though. I have to wait for the exact right moment. I step closer.

Another crawl forward. Her arms are out now.

I take another step.

She meets my eyes again. “Kent?” Her bottom lip quivers, adrenaline dancing frantically in her veins.

I lick my lips. “Yes, little one?”

“It would be wrong to force me to pee like an animal. You’re going to let me use the bathroom, right?”

“Of course,” I say. I tuck my hand behind my back and grip the cleaver’s handle. The bitch can’t see it. I bet she thinks she’s finally going to escape.

But I’m ready too.

“You’re not an animal. You’re human,” I add.

She’s human.

She’s only human.

Human meat.

My meat.

And I want to eat all of her.

She crawls the final inches out of the cage, and as soon as her bubbled ass is past the metal bars, I smash down the cleaver with every ounce of strength I have. The sharp blade hits the backside of her lower thigh, a few inches above the knee, slicing through the skin, the vessels, the nerves, the muscle, and into the bone.

Blood gushes like a fountain. The bitch falls onto her stomach; the sobs spew from her throat like a gurgling lava pit, and the cleaver is stuck in the bone. I howl with laughter. I didn’t think I’d be able to cut through the bone in one whack, but with two more whacks in quick succession, it’s completely cut off. I guess her meat has given me the strength I need. I step closer and she curls into herself, moaning in pain and trying to get away from me.

I need to work fast; if I hit one of the major arteries, I’ll only have a few minutes.

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