Friday, January 23, 2004

Whole Body Day 3 And Final!

The TV is still sitting on the floor in the spot where it tumbled from the stand. There's a crack running diagonal across the screen. He has to walk around it to get in and out of the bathroom. Pete will carry it out to the curb eventually, when everything's finished.

Last night she said, "I love you my Pete." Her first full sentence in six days. It was after her bowl of cornflakes and fingernails. They'd made it to fingernails. Tomorrow, it would be hair. They were ahead of schedule.

Pete's in the bathroom, pouring alcohol where the meat was shorn and wrapping fresh gauze over the red plains of thigh and buttocks. He is calculating the costs of the impending purchases. New set of towels. Replace the broken window. Throw out the clamshell chair and maybe finally spring for a couch. New TV, that could wait. The shelving that fell he might be able to reattach to the wall. Though most of the picture frames and knick-knacks had shattered so they might not need any shelves for a while.

"Want the Pete! All the Pete!"

"Just a minute baby." He's just about got the bandage wrapped and fastened around his right thigh. That's the scrape that stings the most. He went too deep there. But the way she was at first, he didn't think he'd ever be able to give her enough.

He was already at the thighs on Day One. Not long after he got her tied to the clamshell chair, he grabbed the citrus knife and shaved a hunk from his left buttock and dangled it naked into her mouth from his lacrosse gloved hand. She took it into her throat without a single bite and her hunger turned furious. She was getting what she wanted, finally.

So he hit the right buttock and fed her again right away. She chewed that piece and calmed a bit. But it wouldn't last long if he didn't give her some more.

He had to distract her in order to stop at the thigh that night. So he first tacked the strip of skin and tissue to the wall behind her chair, making her crane her head back and snap her jaws up at the meat. She fought at the restraints but never took her eyes off the dangling slab while Pete, already naked from the waist down, climbed into the chair and slid inside her.

It turned her snapping and snarling to a steady growl, but she never took her eyes off the meat. With each thrust, her focus on the meat grew more studied. When he was ready to come, and when he thought she was ready for whatever could be interpreted as an orgasm in her state, Pete yanked the meat from the wall with his hand in the lacrosse glove and stuffed it into her mouth. She howled from behind the mouthful of flesh, let her head weave round and round on her neck, swallowed, and fell asleep with Pete in her pussy and her belly.

Before he leaves the bathroom, Pete takes a look in the mirror. He stares into in his own eyes to try to dull the throbbing in his head from all the alcohol. He has to be drunk to start cutting into himself. On that first day, there was only a quarter liter of vodka left in the freezer but he couldn't leave her alone long enough to go out for more. On the second day, during one of her sleeps, he ran out and spent forty bucks on whiskey and wine and for the past five days he's been drunk as New Year's. The hangovers are bleeding into the drunks, so he's cutting back today.

The stench doesn't help his head either. The pile of soiled bathtowels under the window has turned the room septic. She's sitting on their last towel and he's afraid to go in and find out if she's through with it. This is love unmitigated, set free of the bounds of continence.

"Moooore Pete. Love my Pete."

The second day took the limit of his buttocks and nearly half of his left under-thigh. But by nightfall she was willing to eat half a roll he'd pressed up against a wound and bloodied. Day three required a lot of sex. And he did thirty minutes on their exercycle then let her suck on the sweaty tee shirt. Dinner that night was a hamburger wrapped in the skin of his shoulder and thigh, fried. Days four and five weaned her from slabs of flesh onto real food with bits of Pete as a garnish (foot calluses and one earlobe, toasted). By the night of day five, last night, Pete was able to hug Jenna (still in restraints) without her snapping out at his neck or cheek.

They went home together the night they met. They had sex quickly and then stayed up all night, letting their hands graze along each other's inclines and crevices. She'd dance her fingers along the peak of his hip and she'd say I love this. She'd slide her fingers into the thick of his pubis and she'd say I love this. She place her palm flat on his cheek, bent crooked over his mouth, stiff over his eyes, each time she said I love this.

"Love it all," he said. "Take it all."

When Pete met Jenna, he had no use for himself anymore. He wanted to surrender to her all rights to his self. He told her that very first night. "From now on, I am not Pete. I am Jenna's."

That first night, had she asked that he chop himself apart and feed himself to her, he would have consented readily. But she didn't ask. She didn't want to rush things. And as time wore on, Pete's love for her and willingness to give of himself to her never faded. But it was forced to battle distraction. Obligations to his employer, his family and friends, the child to whom he'd volunteered to be a Big Brother, and to Jenna. Long released from the dizzy swirl of newfound love, Pete has his wits about him enough to know that he must keep himself in one piece in order to continue to love and care for Jenna.

But Jenna's need only grew stronger. She's less practical than Pete. She's less considerate of long-term consequences. He has to remind her that if she chops him into pieces and eats him up, when her plate's clean he'll be all gone.

"Pete?" She calls his name the way a human would. The way the people at the office do.


Pete walks out of the bathroom and Jenna is looking in his eyes. Not like a predator. The need isn't gustatory. It's that need that no one can comprehend. The one that can hurt so much more than a hunk of flesh being shaved from the bone. It’s what he saw in her eyes the first night they lay in bed together.

He takes a step towards her, then remembers to put on his lacrosse gloves. She growls just a bit in the delay. The he climbs into the clamshell chair, settles himself in her spread open lap, and wraps his arms around her neck, taking care to brace his jaw against hers to keep her from whipping about and snapping into his ear.

But he feels no struggle in her jaw. Only the warmth of her cheek as it caresses his. The struggle is in her bound hands. He shouldn't, but he sets her arms free, keeping her torso fastened firmly to the chair frame.

Pete's frightened when her arms rattle around his back and pull him into a tight clench. But she doesn't grab him or twist him towards her mouth. She just holds him.

"Whole body," she whispers. "Whole body."

Her nails dig into his back a bit.

"Whole body," getting louder.

"You have it."

The nails recede.

"Whole body."

Pete whispers into Jenna's ear. "You have it."

They stay still there in the chair for a few hours, then have sex again. Tomorrow he will feed her his hair. He really liked his haircut, but her breathing is still erratic. She still needs a little more of him. Perhaps as early as tomorrow night, she'll want some ice cream.

Happy Whole Body Day 3 And Final!