Page 83 of Morsel

I wait for her in the kitchen and clean the blender in the sink. The little morsel appears naked in the hallway, her mouth-watering flesh completely exposed for my viewing pleasure. She leans her weight forward, then shoves the walker a few inches ahead. Her balance is shit though, and she teeters like a bobble-headed toy.

As she ambles forward, she doesn’t turn in my direction.

My jaw ticks. Seeing her struggle like this should arouse me, but this rude behavior gets on my nerves.

She can’t even look at me?

I can understand where she’s coming from though. It must be hard to be respectful to someone when they cut off your leg before you’re ready.

“Good morning, little morsel,” I say. I dry my soapy hands on a towel, then lift a full glass. “I made you some breakfast.”

Her head swivels, then latches onto the green smoothie in the raised glass. Her upper lip twitches. Spinach, pineapple, coconut milk, strawberries, tofu, and a special ingredient just for her.

“I added your favorite protein,” I say. “My semen.”

A dry heave gurgles up her throat. Her lips clamp shut, keeping the potential vomiting at bay. Finally, she straightens herself, then gives me her best pleading, watery eyes.

“Kent,” she whispers. “Can’t you give me something else? You know I hate?—”

My ears fizzle, and my vision reddens. Her lips move. I don’t hear her anymore.

I’m giving her freedom. I purchased a mobility assistance tool, though she won’t need it for much longer. I even prepared a meal for her. I give and give and give.

And she still thinks she can disrespect my courtesies?

I rip a wide silicone straw from the kitchen drawer, then slam it into the smoothie. I never had any use for a straw before; it was another purchase I made for her. With all the shit I’ve done, you’d think she’d be a little more appreciative.

I stomp forward. My lips widen into a grin. My gait is furious, each step pounding into the floor. Mona’s knuckles blanch against the handles of her walker.

“Drink it,” I say cheerily. Mona stares at me. Her refusal isn’t verbal; it’s there in her body language. The cunt thinks she has a say in her nutritional intake. Now, she’s the stupid one.

This smoothie is better for her body. Better for the meat. And I’m doing it all for her.

“Drink it,” I order. My voice is chipper, but the words are harsh. My chin drops, and as I try to smile again, I bare my teeth.

Mona bows her head, the tension finally getting to her. Then she bends forward and wraps her lips around the straw. The sides of the silicone pinch together under her suction, and my shoulders relax. The spinach will flush out her system, and the pineapple will help bring out the sweetness that’s buried underneath the bitterness of her past carnivorous diet.

“That’s it,” I say. I salivate, my eyes glued to her sucking lips. “That’s my good little meat hole.”

She sneers at me over the straw, seething with visible rage. The straw inflates; she’s not drinking anymore.

I scrunch my nose. “Come on, little morsel,” I say, encouraging her. “Keep drink?—”

She smacks the glass out of my hand. The glass shatters. The smoothie splashes down and paints the laminate in ugly green globs.

I gawk at the floor, my jaw hanging.

What does she think she’ll get out of spilling the smoothie?

Why did she do it?

What’s the purpose of being that defiant when she knows that I own her now?

Mona tightens her palms on her walker, and her spine straightens into the air.

“I am not your meat hole,” she snarls.

My shoulders vibrate, and my teeth clamp shut. Everything around me spins like a carousel until I can’t concentrate on anything but Mona’s complete and utter disrespect.

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