Page 82 of Morsel

But I desperately want a taste first.

I pick up her leg and lick right over the bone. The sourness invades my tastebuds, my blood vessels expanding to better consume her energy. And that’s when I smell it: her rancid fear. It’s nasty, like a mix of armpit sweat and sewage. My nostrils flare, soaking up as much as I can. My dick spasms against my legs.

The bitch inches to one side and pulls herself forward in a pathetic attempt at an army crawl. She looks like a worm. Her good leg shoves her body toward a nearby cupboard, and she pulls herself up. Her face twists, pain shooting through what’s left of her body, but adrenaline is a funny thing. She’s doing so much more than I thought someone could do with a freshly amputated leg.

“You can’t run away,” I say, my laughter roaring. “You can’t do anything. What, little morsel? Are you going to crawl to safety?”

As she falls to the ground in her failed attempt to escape, I can’t help but smile. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I’m so attracted to Mona; I knew a stuck-up cunt like her would give me a good fight. She’s too stubborn to give up. My little morsel has the mindset of a wolf; she’s only just now finding out she’s trapped in a rabbit’s body.

With each of her movements, the adrenaline fades. Her will decreases, her limbs jerking. The little rabbit is finally in the wolf’s teeth.

I can’t have her dying on me yet.

I grab a fistful of her hair and drag her over to the kitchen. The cast iron pan stinks of charred metal, and smoke fills the air. I’m high on my own actions as I take in the blood. So much fucking blood. On the walls. On the laminate. On her skin. Though this time, it has nothing to do with a pig. It’s all Mona. Only Mona. She’s going to need serious recovery time after this.

For now, I’ll savor her life, and later, I’ll relish in her death.

After I slap the veterinary tourniquet on her thigh, I move to the cast iron. The metal sizzles against her thigh, but it’s so wet and fleshy it barely cauterizes anything. Her body goes completely limp, her mind and body unconscious. I push the pan to another area. The blood smokes, and the scent of seared meat wafts in the air. My mouth salivates. It smells fucking delicious, but no matter how difficult it is, I have to stay focused.

Heat the pan. Wait. Remove the pan. Press it to the flesh. Again and again until it’s completely closed up with burned flesh.

Finally, I power off the stove and remove the tourniquet. The mobile home reeks of barbecue. I make a mental note to sear part of her severed leg in a similar way and enjoy the meal later. Right now, my body wants something else.

I use the strength meant for Mona’s full body as I scoop her into my arms, but I almost toss her into the air. She’s so light now, it’s like she could fly out of my hands.

Less meat. Less muscle. Less strength.

More food. More meat. More control.

I kick open the back door. Outside, I bend her over the steps that lead up to the industrial meat grinder. She stirs and squints her eyes. Her face contorts. Her entire body must hurt, and fuck, it’s got to be confusing to wake up outside like this.

“Kent?” she asks. “The fuck?—”

I point up to the machine. “You see that?” I whisper. “I’m going to put you inside of it one day. Maybe your head,” I murmur. “Maybe I should do that right now.”

“Please!” she sobs. “Please, Kent. Don’t?—”

There’s that word again. Please. You’d never know that an entitled bitch could be broken down into common courtesies. I guess all it takes is a missing tit and a leg to get her manners straightened out.

I’ve never wanted to grind a woman up—not yet anyway—but she doesn’t know that. And if I want to keep her alive, I’ll need to go to the store soon. With her here, I obviously have enough to eat, but she needs food. Greens. Organic vegetables. Fruits. Berries. Everything to keep her meat tender and sweet.

I prop her waist up, bending her at the best angle; she’s too weak to fight me right now. Then I grab her hips and slide my dick inside of her wet pussy. Laughter rolls out of me. She claims she would never be into sexual cannibalism, but the fight-or-flight response activates, and suddenly the bitch is as wet as beef stew.

Her pussy walls clench me, contracting against my movements, and eventually, she’s quiet.

As I fuck her, I think about what I’ll do with her leg. I’ll smoke and sear some of it. With the rest, I can buy a rotisserie. Or maybe I’ll dig a fire pit and cook her flesh over the open flames.

A roast, maybe.

A roast sounds nice.

Chapter 33

After the first leg amputation, Mona slept for a day. She needed it. And during that time, between sharpening my knives, getting rid of her phone, removing the skin of her leg, roasting the flesh, and eating every single scrap from the bone, I decided that once she was up for it, my little morsel could move around the home as much as she wanted. I even got her a walker. I like the idea of giving her a false sense of autonomy. It seemed fair when she had given me fake meat.

And it’s not like she can run away.

When she wakes up, she stays in bed for a while with her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. It’s obvious she’s awake—you don’t go from snoring with a slack mouth to “sleeping” with silent nostrils and pinched lips—but eventually, she accepts my gift and finds her wobbly balance with the walker.

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