Chapter 24

Chapter 24

I lead Mona outside. She puts her personal camera on the back porch step, and the glowing red light on the device reminds me of a lighthouse in the darkness. An ache grows in my chest and drips down to my cock.

She's here. So close to the pit. The flies buzz around us.

I could suffocate her under the flesh.

I would never do that though. Her meat is too good to be repurposed like that.

She slips out of her tights. Those bandage straps come into view, wrapping around her ankles and down over her missing toes, like carefully constructed lingerie leading the eye to the best parts of the body.

I've never liked lingerie; it always felt like it was created to hide something. And now, I tap my fingers together, struggling with the urge to yank those bandages off of her legs and see the healing flesh underneath. Mona needs time to heal though, and those bandages are the best way to make sure that her body can provide for me again.

"Rub it on me," she says. She shoves the olive oil bottle into my hands. "Pretend it's a marinade."

A marinade.

Pretend.

Another prop for her art.

When I don't take the bottle, she twists the cap and begins pouring the olive oil into my hands, then she moves me, making me do what she wants. There's a coldness in her movements, like she's a cardboard cutout at a puppet show, and this is a performance. Give her dirty talk and a bottle prop, and the artistic bitch has everything she wants out of me.

Maybe I'm just a prop too.

She moves my hands to her upper thighs, her skin slimy with the slick yellow oil.

My dick stays limp.

"Just like that," she says. "Pretend you're preparing me for the oven."

Pretend. There's that word again.

Heat funnels inside of me, filling my lungs with ash. Mona is the same as the sex worker in the black lingerie, the same as the stupid whore who accused me of raping her, the same as every shy cunt I've ever dated.

They all wanted to play pretend. They wanted me to hide who I really am. They never wanted me.

Mona is supposed to be different. Better than them.

She moves my hands closer to her pussy, and she giggles. "The oil tickles."

I growl. "Meat doesn't speak."

She avoids my eyes and subtly sighs. "I'm not meat. I'm obviously still livestock."

The anger rushes in, and every blood vessel and nerve ending in my body is scorching with rage. Her condescension is ripe. She wants me to pretend?

Then a marinade isn't where it stops.

"All right," I say.

I grab the hair at the bottom of her neck and drag her up the platform to the industrial meat grinder. She trips over the steps, and my fist tugs her hair harder, yanking at the strands.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she asks.

I force her head into the metal hopper. "Putting my livestock in the meat grinder," I say. "I've always heard livestock tastes best when the meat is ground while it's still alive. Let's test that theory."

I power on the machine, and it whirs, the metal screeching through the air. My fingers accidentally slip over the dial, and the metal grinding increases. A slosh of old meat drops to the bottom of the holding container, breaking up the metal orchestra, but it's Mona's protesting that brings it to another level. She thrashes, her small frame bucking against my erection, and my muscles are heavy with tension. It feels so fucking good to dangle prey right above its death.

Her oily body slips in my grasp. I reposition myself and use her extra clothing to get a better hold on her. It's enough to keep her still.

"Kent!" she screams. "Kent, don't you dare?—"

This time, I purposefully twist the dial as I unzip my pants. It's only switching plates, but she doesn't know that. Mona's head isn't fully inside of the grinder, but she screams, and I pin my full weight against her body, keeping the front half of her stuck inside of the machine. My dick slips in the olive oil as I slide into her pussy. She's wet though. No— the dumb little bitch is fucking soaked, and fuck, my dick twitches with each of her greedy little protests.

"Let me go!"

She keeps screaming, but we're in the middle of nowhere. The nearest hint of civilization is the landfill, and even then, their machines are louder than mine. The workers can't hear a thing.

I squeeze her neck and her cunt retaliates, her cream squishing out around me. I always knew fear would make her wet, and that confirmation fills my head with a seductive mist, putting me in a trance. She pulls at my hands, but her oily fingers slip like mine did.

"You're mocking me," I say loudly into her ear. I thrust against her and her cunt constricts around me so nicely, it's like she thinks she can grind my meat with her pussy. "With your head in the meat grinder, it's a little hard to fuck with me, isn't it?"

I tighten my grip on her neck, and she struggles, her exposed skin bulging red with blood. Her pussy tries strangling me to death, but I'm the one with my hands around her throat right now.

I press my lips to her ear. "You know what I'd do after I cut off your arm? I'd cut a hole in the bicep and fuck the wound. Then you wouldn't mock me, would you? You wouldn't think I was a stupid, little boy then."

Her eyes roll white, her lungs stop, and that delicious unconsciousness pushes me over the edge. I come inside of the bitch, filling up her meaty cunt with my fluids. Pleasure tingles over my body, and the night air cools me down. I pull out of her pussy and power off the meat grinder.

Mona's body stays limp in the metal hopper, her pussy exposed, my off-white semen glooping out of her oily hole. My stomach grumbles at the sight, and I'm compelled; I drop to my knees and lick her pussy, tasting her fear, the olive oil, and my semen. I imagine it's like a Balut egg, half-formed babies seasoned with oil and salt rolling over my tongue.

She stirs, her pussy writhing against my face. I bring her hips closer and keep eating the juices.

"The fuck, Kent?" she murmurs. She kicks me in the shoulder, and I pull away. Her face twists into knots. "Are you seriously eating my pussy right now?"

I wipe the back of my mouth with my hand. "You liked it before?—"

"That was different. This time, you—" Her lips quiver. Nothing comes out. Finally, she points a finger at me. "You raped me."

"Raped you?" I ask. "You're the one who wanted to be treated like livestock."

"I told you to let me go, and you didn't."

"I thought it was a rape fantasy," I say in a low voice, my tone snarling with mockery. "You said you had rape fantasies, remember?"

She bares her teeth, but she doesn't contradict me. She knows I'm right. She's the one who talked about her rape fantasies at our first dinner date. She should've anticipated I would do this. It's what she wanted, isn't it? For me to eat her. For me to treat her like my food. My livestock. My raised human meat.

"You're unbelievable, you fucking predator," she says as she backs away from me and bumps into the meat grinder. "One day, you're going to pay for it."

A grin spreads over my face. "A predator?"

All of this time, I've felt like Mona was the one luring me into her trap, and now, the rush of power in her accusation swims over me. Pride builds in my stomach, in my chest, in my shoulders. Puffing my insides. Making me taller. Bigger. Stronger than her. Me, on top of the food chain. Me, inspecting my meat. Me, the predator.

"You don't like it when you're not on top," I say, amusement in my tone. "You don't like it when you're the one who's captured, huh, little morsel?"

She shoves past me, then grabs her things off of the back porch and stomps to her SUV.

"Go fuck yourself," she shouts.

Her car door slams. I stand on the platform as she drives away. It's then that I notice the film camera—my gift—is still on the porch steps.

I pick it up and sigh. All of my life, every woman has ended up being the same condescending little cunt who thinks she's better than me. Who thinks she can walk all over me. Who thinks she can trap me in her spiderweb and suck me dry.

None of them realize that I'm the one who holds the true power.

I stare at the dark road. After I clear my head, I should go to Mona's next lecture and apologize. I don't know what came over me, I'll say. I guess I was angry. It'll be partially true; I am angry—fucking enraged—but I know what inspired it: her need to pretend.

Putting that aside, I don't want to end things like this. Maybe I'll tell her I was feeling insecure and return the gifted camera.

I should want her forgiveness too.

But there's an appeal in confronting her and realizing that she's not going to forgive me, because she wants me to leave. Because she wants me to stay far, far away. Because she knows I'm the predator and she's my prey, about to die in my teeth.

And I like the way that feels.