Eating Out

Her breath still held the burn of chilli, with a hint of sesame oil. I could taste a remnant of pork, caught between molars.

It seemed fitting, in an odd sort of way.

There, in that room of muted light, with no warmth but hers. What better place?

Outside, the moon danced drunkenly upon the lake, as if in cahoots with the night’s festivities. A light breeze stirred cicadas, their incessant calls almost drowned out by the drone of traffic on the lakeside road.

Music wafted through the walls, discordant due to the multitude of sources. It seems it was party night in the apartment block. Each group of partiers competing for musical supremacy, everything from cock rock, hip-hop, punk and through to that nauseating drivel that the “Idol” shows disgorge upon the world.

No such music played in that room however.

But I digress.

Back to she of the chilli and pork.

Such a disappointment, in the end.

Her glazed eyes barely recalled the horror they screamed but a moment earlier. The burst blood vessels in her throat revealed the faintest whisper of it.

I remember it all.

Intimately.

It had begun well enough. She had heard rumour of my talents. My predilection for the more obscure histories of man and a penchant for poetry made me a fine catch.

She wasn’t bright by any stretch. Sure, she had a uni degree, physics or some such, even well versed in Byron, Yates, Kerouac and the like. Substance. That was what she lacked though. As shallow as Hilton, Bingle or any other socialite the paparazzi are drooling over these days.

Looks, they were her saving grace. I have known many a woman who would switch teams to sample the pleasures promised there.

Her skin akin to translucent porcelain, matched with eyes of diamond blue, full lips and fine, long black hair. Legs that went all the way up and promised to strangle you, along with breasts that could feed a dozen infants, all this certainly tempted one.

Suffice to say, temptation got the better of me. Or her, as the case may be.

She contacted me via a website I post on. Effusing over my writing, she poured her loves and hates out to me. With the barest effort, I coerced an invitation out of her. She, delirious with the attention and despite this having been our only form of intercourse, spoke of her feelings and desires towards me.

Arranging dinner was easy from there.

So, we met.

Thai for her and beef tataki for me. White wine for her, a rich red in my glass.

I could hardly get a word in, not that I needed to. A word here, a gesture or smile there, so easy to play that woman.

I knew, hours before she did, that she would invite me to her home after dinner. No amount of perfume could hide the muskiness of her arousal. Every cell in her body was screaming out “fuck me”. Me though? I just sat, enjoyed my raw beef and listened.

The restaurant was mere foreplay to me. A means to an end. Frankly, after 2 hours of this, I was beginning to wonder if I had made the right choice. Still, I persevered. A hunter waits patiently.

Eventually, around 10pm, we arrived at her apartment by the lake. As soon as we entered, I could see my assessment was correct. Plenty of high brow items of artwork, copies of various art-house DVD’s, science books on the shelf, even a few of my books. Alas, all offset by the Britney Spears, One Direction and Whitney Houston CD’s sitting atop her hi-fi.

Still, I didn’t come here for her taste, so to speak.

As with many women, she set about delaying the inevitable. Despite her very obvious intentions, she offered me coffee, which I of course declined, asking instead if she had any rich red wine.

After acceding to my request, we sat on the couch, where I was regaled with more praise for my work. Apparently, I touched a part of her oft ignored. “Your heart is all I desire”, I told her.

The conversation continued thus for about 40 minutes. By that time, I had finished my wine and helped finish hers.

She leant forward to place the glass on the table. Sitting back, she contrived to press herself against me. I presented her with a soft smile. Taking this as a queue, she leant closer, kissing me gently.

Gentleness, not one of my strong suits.

Taking her head with one hand, I kissed back with a fury. Her response, as I expected, was to try and match me.

Finally released from self denial, her hands clawed at my shirt, ripping off buttons, as my free hand reciprocated. Long nails tore at my chest and back, wanting, needing release.

So, I released her.

I pushed her back on the couch, with little care for politeness. Wrenching her blouse from her, I thrust my fist into her abdomen, letting my now chitinous claws gouge her flesh.

At this point, she didn’t seem to realise what was happening. She simply mewed with drunken pleasure. When she felt my breath on her neck, she leant her head back, offering herself to me.

As I said, disappointing, no fight at all. So I finished it then and there. My hand had by now reached up under her rib-cage and found her heart. Just before I bit down on her neck, I squeezed gently. Not with my full strength, just enough to raise her blood pressure, making it easier to get a taste of her.

Then, for the barest of moments, she arrived at the realisation. Her eyes widened in shock, her throat widened and she screamed.

Too late though. She was dead in less than 10 seconds. Barely satisfied, I wrenched her heart out. I willed my jaw to open up like a snakes, taking the heart in one mouthful, biting down hard, releasing the last vestiges of blood trickle down my throat.

Calmly, I walked to the bathroom, washed up took my leave. With all the music, no-one had heard her scream.

And you, my beauty, why am I telling you all this? No, this is not another of my stories, there’s a lesson in here for you. You could say I’m giving you a chance to prolong your life. Don’t bore me; let me recall your name in centuries to come. Be more than just a memory of chilli and food remnants between teeth.

Let the hunter play with his food.

© 2012, Mosquitobyte