Dethroned
The glass jar fogged with each time Brandon gave a shallow exhale. His hands slid against the cool surface as he watched the scene unfold like a grotesque theater. Megan’s gut jiggled with each thrust, her muscular arms pinning Nathan to the mattress as she rode him with a ferocity that made the bedframe creak. Sweat glistened on her skin, catching the dim light of the bedside lamp, and the room smelled thick with musk—her beer-laced breath, the tang of sex, the faint metallic scent of fear that Brandon swore he could taste even from inside his prison.
Nathan’s glasses were askew, his face a canvas of blissful ignorance as he gasped beneath her. He didn’t see Brandon. He didn’t see the jar. He didn’t see the way Megan’s eyes flicked to it every so often, a smirk playing on her lips as she moaned louder, her voice cutting through the air like a scythe. Brandon’s heart hammered in his ribcage, his pulse so loud he was sure she could hear it, even over the wet slap of skin on skin.
“Fuck, Nathan,” Megan growled, her tone low and hoarse. She leaned forward, her belly pressing against his chest as she ground down on him, her maneuvering deliberate, almost cruel. “Faster, bitch,” she laughed, an abrupt, mocking sound, and Brandon relaxed. His fingers uncurled from fists.
“He’s not moving fast enough,” Brandon thought. Brandon was deducting points from Nathon with every passing second. He knew what came next. He’d seen it before. He read Nathan’s visage, searching for any sign that the man understood the danger he was in, but there was nothing—just wide-eyed adoration, a man lost in the throes of pleasure. “Idiot,” Brandon thought, untensing his back. “You’re already dead.’
Megan’s moans grew louder and more theatrical, and Brandon’s anxiety spiked. He knew her tells. The way her breath hitched just before she reached her peak, the way her fingers dug into Nathan’s shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks. She was close. Too close. Brandon’s gaze swung between her face and Nathan’s, his mind racing. “How long does he have? Minutes? Seconds?” He felt sick to his core as Megan’s hips stuttered, her movements becoming erratic.
“That’s it,” she purred, dripping with satisfaction. “Come on, Nathan. Don’t hold back.” Her gaze met Brandon’s through the glass, and she winked, her grin predatory. Brandon’s inhale got caught in his windpipe. “She’s toying with me,” he realized, his chest hardening. “She wants me to watch. She wants me to know the consequences.”
Nathan’s back arched, a strangled cry escaping his lips as he came, and Megan’s laughter filled the room, sharp and cutting. Brandon closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight, but the sounds were worse—the wet squelch of their bodies, Megan’s croaky moans, Nathan’s ragged breathing. His ears rang with it, a cacophony that made his skin crawl.
“This is it,” Brandon thought, his throat dry. “This is how it ends for him.” He opened his eyes just in time to see Megan lean down, her lips brushing Nathan’s ear as she whispered something too low for Brandon to hear. Nathan’s face went slack, his expression lathered in confusion, and Brandon’s was overcome with pity. “He doesn’t even know what’s happening.”
“You’re better than the last one. Not as good as Brandon, though,” said Megan, Nathan not even registering the comment.
Brandon’s pulse was relaxed. He had been through this many times over the last 8 months. His mind always considered, “How long do I have?” He watched as Megan rolled off Nathan, her speed languid and unhurried, and his stomach churned. “She’s not done with him yet.” Brandon’s eyes turned to Nathan, who lay flopped on the sheets, his torso rising and falling in irregular bursts, a sheen of sweat shimmering on his skin. “You have no idea,” Brandon thought, his chest tightening. “None at all.’
Megan propped herself up on one elbow beside him, her beer belly rising and falling with each breath. She smirked, her fingers trailing lazily down Nathan’s arm.
“Not bad,” she teased. “Okay stamina. So-so rhythm. Limited move set.”
Nathan blinked, still dazed, a timid smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks... I think?”
Megan chuckled, a reverberate that sent a shiver across Brandon’s spine inside the jar.
But Megan’s hand moved before Nathan could even register what was happening. Her fingers snapped together with a blunt, decisive click. Nathan’s body convulsed, his eyes widening in shock as he began to shrink. His mouth opened, but no sound came out—just a wispy, strangled gasp as his form dwindled down, down, down until he was no bigger than a bottle cap.
“Wh-what the—” Nathan’s voice was high-pitched now, panicked. He stumbled on the rumpled sheets, his tiny legs tangling in the fabric. “What the hell is going on?!”
Megan leaned over him, her shadow engulfing his miniature frame. “Relax,” she said, her tone almost bored. “You failed the test.”
“Test?!” Nathan scrambled backward, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. “What are you talking about? What did you do to me?!”
Megan irritably, as if explaining this to a child. “I just gave you a test drive. And you're not the model I want. You’re a downgrade.” Her hand shot out, plucking him off the bed with ease. Nathan’s tiny fists beat against her fingers, his cries muffled by the thick flesh of her palm.
Brandon’s organs did a backflip as he judged from the jar. “Don’t scream,” he thought, his own words throttled in his neck. “Don’t give her the satisfaction.” But Nathan didn’t know better. He screamed, his bloodcurdling cries shrill and desperate, echoing through the room.
“Shut up,” Megan muttered, her cheeks sagging in annoyance. She held him up to her scowl, her breath hot and steamy against his tiny body. “Maybe if you acted more like a man in the bedroom, you wouldn’t be my snack?”
Nathan froze, unable to look away from her mouth. “Please,” he trembled. “Please, don’t do this.”
Megan rolled her eyes. “God, you’re weak.” Without another word, she opened her maw wide, her tongue rolling out like a red carpet. Brandon’s breath hitched as he cringed, his stomach twisting in knots.
Nathan’s screams were cut short as Megan popped him into her gob. Her lips closed around him, and Brandon could see the faint outline of his tiny form pressing against the inside of her cheek. Megan’s jaw moved slowly, deliberately, her tongue working him deeper into her gullet. A muffled cry escaped her mouth.
Brandon turned away, heartburn rising in his chest. He couldn’t watch—couldn’t bear to see the bulge in her throat as she swallowed. But he couldn’t escape the sound: the guttural gulp, the wet slide of Nathan’s body disappearing into the dark abyss of her stomach.
Megan let out a satisfied sigh, patting her tummy with a grin. “The whiny ones always taste worse,” she said casually, as if she’d just finished a chocolate bar rather than consumed a person. Megan let out an elephantine burp and scratched her pubes.
Brandon’s hands trembled. It never got easier seeing someone die. “This is my life now,” he thought, his mind spiraling. “This is what’s waiting for me.’ His attention magnetized to Megan’s belly, her deep navel, with no visual indication that Nathan was in there. He could hear the imperceptible, muffled cries from within, a haunting reminder of what awaited him if he failed to please her.
Megan stretched her arms above her head and let out another yawn. “Well,” she said, glancing at the jar with a smirk. “Guess it’s your turn next, huh?”
Brandon’s heart stopped. “No. Not yet.”
Megan laughed, sending the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. “Relax, Brandon. You’re not on the menu... yet.” She blew a kiss, her grin widening as she climbed off the bed. “For now, you’re safe. Still number one. Undefeated.”
He watched as Megan pranced out of the room, her belly swaying slightly with each step.
The glass jar clicked open, and Brandon tumbled out, his limbs sprawling awkwardly as he hit the bed covers. The room reeked of sweat, the air thick with the aftermath of what had just happened. He scrambled to stand, his heart still racing, his skin clammy. The mattress was wet, which bodily fluid didn’t matter to him. Megan stood over him, her bare feet planted firmly on the carpet, her stomach slightly distended. She smirked down at him, snapping her fingers. He shook and wiggled as he started to grow, his eyes bulging for a brief moment. In an instant he was normal again, a passive nausea coming over him that he knew would be short-lived.
"Welcome back, big guy," she said nonchalantly, like she hadn’t just swallowed a man whole. "Get the sheets, will you? They’re a mess."
Brandon nodded, a prisoner of his resentment. He moved robotically, pulling the soiled sheets off the bed. The fabric clung to his fingers, damp and sticky. He avoided looking at the stains, focusing instead on the task at hand. “Just do it. Don’t think about it.’ But he couldn’t stop the images from flooding his mind—Nathan’s tiny, hopeless cries, the way Megan’s throat had bulged as she swallowed Nathan whole. He shuddered, his hands unsteady as he tossed the sheets into the hamper.
Megan brushed past him, heading to the bathroom. He heard the sink running, the rhythmic scrubbing of her toothbrush against her teeth. She hummed a tune, completely at ease. Brandon stared at the fresh sheets in his hands. Egyptian cotton, of course, only the best for Megan. The crisp white fabric was a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind. He smoothed them over the mattress, his motions slow and deliberate, as if the act could somehow erase what had just happened.
When he finished, Megan reappeared, her toothbrush hanging from the corner of her mouth. She flopped onto the bed, the springs creaking under her weight. "Come on," she said, patting the space beside her. "Spoon me."
Brandon hesitated, his body stiff. He climbed into bed, his movements robotic, and wrapped his arm around her. She grabbed his hand, guiding it to her belly. The skin was warm, slightly taut. He felt it then—a faint, fitful stirring beneath his palm. A muffled scream reached his ears, distant but unmistakable. A wave of sickness rolled through Brandon, digestive fluid building in the back of his esophagus.
"Can you hear him?" Megan asked, her timbre tinged with amusement. “Guess he’s a fighter. If only he showed that much enthusiasm when he was railing me."
Brandon swallowed hard, his hand trembling against her abdomen. "Yeah," he muttered, his utterance completely hollow.
Megan chuckled, the sound low and throaty. "Relax, Brandon. You’re safe... for now. You gotta learn to relax. You’re so uptight." She shifted, pressing her back against his chest, and let out a contented sigh. "Goodnight."
He lay there, his body rigid, always calculating. “Safe for now.’ The words infinitely ricocheting in his cranium, a grim reminder of his reality. He stared at the back of her head, her dark hair spilling across the pillow, and wondered how long he had before he ended up like Nathan.
The next day, Brandon returned from work, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion. The office had been a blur of emails and meetings, but his mind had been elsewhere. The garage door stood open, revealing two muscle cars with their hoods raised, parked inside. The area was secure enough that no one would consider tampering with them. She had been working on both for years. Each part was replaced with every new paycheck. Always tweaking. Always perfecting.
Every step toward the house was like a march toward his own impending doom.
Fear gripped him like iron chains, leaving him paralyzed as he contemplated the possibility of running or escaping. After their first date, Megan had mysteriously called him at work, requesting he bring home takeout. Baffled, he wondered how she had acquired his phone number and discovered his workplace, as he had never shared those details with her. Megan possessed the uncanny ability to shrink, and who knew what other enigmatic powers she might wield. Did he truly want to take the risk of her tracking him down? The prospect of being pursued was daunting. He had spent countless hours at his desk, scrolling through various flight options, desperately plotting an escape route to a place where he could begin anew. Was it worth trying to escape or living like a slave? His demise seemed inevitable but would running accelerate the process.
He stood outside the door, his key hovering over the lock, and took a deep breath. “Just get through it. One night at a time.”
Inside, Megan was sunk into the couch, a beer in one hand, her phone in the other. She glanced up as he entered, her eyes flicking over him with mild interest. "Hey," she said, her tone friendly. "How was work?"
"Fine," Brandon replied, setting his bag down. He forced a smile, though he worried he might have inadvertently grimaced. "Just the usual."
Megan nodded, her attention already back on her phone. She swiped through profiles, her fingers moving quickly. Brandon watched her from the corner of his eye, his paranoia rising. “Who’s next?” he wondered, his stomach churning. He moved to the kitchen; his hands twitched as he pulled out ingredients for dinner. He looked at her scrolling. “She’s searching for perfection. She's searching for the best.” The knife felt heavy in his hand as he chopped vegetables, the pulsing sound of the blade against the cutting board doing little to calm his nerves. “She uses dating apps as if they were food delivery services,” he thought.
Megan’s laughter broke the silence. "Look at this guy," she said, holding up her phone. "He’s got a six-pack. Bet he’s a fun one."
Brandon glanced at the screen, his eyes lingering on the man’s chiseled abs. “Another one to add to the waistline,” he thought bitterly. He forced a laugh, though it came out strained. "Yeah, looks like it." Brandon always found it amusing that Megan cared tremendously about how fit her suitors were, and yet she didn’t care to work out herself. Her arms were muscular from working as a car mechanic, but she never took care of herself. She never wore make-up, and he was pretty sure she used a bar of soap for shampoo. But Brandon knew that she was judging her “dates” with a different rubric. Like a cattle breeder picking out the best male, of course she wouldn’t hold herself to the same standard as the cows.
Megan smirked, setting her phone down. "Don’t worry, Brandon," she mocked. "You’re still my favorite...”
He turned back to the stove, his hands gripping the edge of the counter. The burden of her words crushing him, a constant reminder of his precarious position. “Just survive,” he told himself, though the thought offered little comfort. The smell of onions sizzling in the pan filled the kitchen, but it did nothing to mask the underlying tension in the air.
The house was a hodgepodge of luxury items interspersed with outdated decor. Megan had clear priorities, and the things she didn't prioritize were glaringly obvious. A glass cabinet showcased a collection of car models, each meticulously arranged, while the rest of the room seemed to languish in a bygone era with faded wallpaper and worn-out furniture.
As he plated the food, Megan leaned back on the couch, her belly peeking out from under her shirt. He couldn’t help but glance at it, wondering about the thousands that had been eaten to build that level of gut. The thought was like poison, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the task at hand.
When the two finished eating, Megan went to the bedroom. After sex, dinner was always required. When Brandon undressed, Megan glanced him up and down.
“Are you putting on weight?” Megan said in a quizzical tone.
“I don’t think so? I haven’t been to the gym recently. Been too distracted with work,” said Brandon, a flood of self-consciousness showering him.
“Are you fattening yourself up for me?” responded Megan, looking offended.
“Of course not,” said Brandon.
“Then I don’t know why you’d let yourself go,” said Megan, her face oozing with disappointment, “whatever.”
The room was thick with the odor of sweat and beer, the air heavy like a storm waiting to break. Megan lay sprawled on the bed, her belly rising and falling with shallow breaths, her arms lazily draped above her head. She didn’t move, didn’t reach for him—just watched with half-lidded eyes as Brandon knelt between her legs, his fingers vibrating with anxiety as they traced the curve of her hip.
“You gonna make it good this time?” she asked contemptuously, almost bored. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her shirt, pulling it up just enough to reveal the soft swell of her stomach. Brandon’s gaze flicked to it, then back to her face. He couldn’t help it. The thought of Nathan—what he had become—curled up inside her, making his gut twist.
“Yeah,” he muttered, his throat tight. He leaned down, pressing his lips to her thigh, tasting salt and musk. His hands moved mechanically, spreading her open, his tongue finding her without hesitation. She sighed, a low, content sound that spawned goosebumps across his body. “Concentrate. Keep her happy.”
“Mmm,” she hummed, her fingers tangling in his hair, not guiding, just resting there. “That’s it. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He couldn’t. His jaw ached, but he pushed through it, his tongue working in slow, deliberate strokes. Her thighs tightened around his head, and he could feel her getting wetter, hear the slick sounds of his efforts. All that mattered was keeping her pleased, keeping himself alive.
When she finally pushed him away, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his chest heaving. She smirked up at him, her aura dark with something he couldn’t quite place. “Now fuck me,” she said, her voice low, commanding. “And don’t hold back.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He positioned himself over her, his penis sliding into her with ease. She was so wet, so warm, and he hated how good it felt. He started slow, his hips moving in a steady rhythm, but she rolled her eyes. “Faster, Brandon. Come on, show me what you’ve got. My little prize pig.”
He gritted his teeth and obeyed, his thrusts becoming harder and faster, his body slamming into hers with a force that made the bed creak. She took an additional gulp, and she let out a low moan, her hands gripping the sheets. He could feel her nails digging into his back, leaving marks he knew would sting when he showered later. But he didn’t care. He had to give her everything, had to make her come so hard she’d never forget his magnificent performance. He had to make sure his high score could never be touched.
“That’s it. Be a good sex toy,” she breathed, her sentence thick with pleasure. “Give me everything you have.”
He didn’t. His muscles burned, his thighs quivering with the effort, but he kept going, his movements desperate and raw. He could see it in her eyes—the way she watched him, the way she knew he was doing this out of fear, out of survival. And it only seemed to turn her on more. Her hips drifted up to meet his, her body moving with a lazy, almost indifferent tempo, as if she didn’t even need to try. She didn’t. She knew he’d do all the work.
His gaze roamed to her belly, soft and round, and he felt a stab of terror. “That could be me.” The thought made him fuck her harder, his thrusts becoming almost frantic. He hated her. He hated this. But he couldn’t pause. He couldn’t risk it.
Brandon gasped for a breath.
“Shut up,” she spat, in a sharp cadence, but her face relaxed with pleasure. “Just keep going. Don’t you dare fucking slow down.”
He didn’t. His body was screaming at him to stop, his muscles giving out, but he pushed through it, his hips pistoning into her with a brutal, unrelenting pace. She arched beneath him, her moans developing more intensity, more urgency, and he knew she was close. He focused on that, on making her come, on proving his worth.
When she finally did, her body tensed, her back arching off the bed as she let out a euphoric cry. He didn’t stop, not until she pushed him away, hyperventilating as she caught her breath.
“Good,” she said lazily, satisfied. She lounged on the bed, her arms thrown over her head, completely at ease. “You’re getting better.”
This was not a shock to Brandon. He was learning.
He collapsed beside her, his body trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He stared at the ceiling, his psyche still running a marathon. “Was it enough? Did I do enough?” He could still hear Nathan’s screams, still feel the weight of Megan’s belly pressing against his hand. He shuddered, sweat forming on his brow instantaneously.
Megan spun onto her side, her hand resting on her paunch, a little smirk playing on her lips. “You really don’t want to get eaten, huh?” Said Megan almost teasingly. “It’s a shame. You look delicious.”
He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His body was spent, his mind a whirlwind of fear and exhaustion. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how long he could keep this up. Wondering how long he had left.
Brandon knelt on the bed, Megan sprawled on her stomach in front of him, her hips slightly raised. The room smelled of sex and sweat, a thick musk that clung to the air. Her ass was pale and dimpled, and he hesitated for only a second before leaning in, his tongue prods against her tight ring of muscle. She let out a low hum, her body relaxing beneath him as he worked.
The taste was sharp and earthy, and he fought the urge to gag, focusing instead on the rhythm, the pressure, and the way her body responded to him. His subconscious wandered, though, back to the first time he’d seen Megan—on their first date—when he met his predecessor, “Cassie.”.
It had been late, the two of them laughing, drunk on cheap wine. Brandon remembered having decent sex and being slightly charmed by Megan’s aggressive and demanding attitude. When they had finished and were catching their breath, Megan turned to her side table. There in a jar was Cassie. He remembered the way Megan’s hand had moved, almost casually, plucking her from the glass container. The memory made his stomach churn. Cassie’s screams had been high-pitched and panicked, but Megan had just laughed, popping her into her mouth like a piece of candy. Brandon had frozen, unable to move, unable to speak. He’d watched as Megan’s throat bulged, as Cassie disappeared into the darkness of her belly. “Looks like you’ve taken first place, hot stuff! Let's see if you can hold the title.” She belched unceremoniously into Brandon’s face with a fine mist of spit.
Megan shifted beneath him, moaning softly, and Brandon forced himself back to the present. He crammed his tongue harder, trying to please her, to prove his worth. “What if that’s me one day?” The thought came unbidden, and he shuddered. What if he ended up nothing more than waste, flushed down the toilet, excreting from the thing he was currently sticking his tongue in?
“That’s enough,” Megan murmured languidly, quenched. “I need you to try harder next time.”
He didn’t respond, pulling away as she rolled onto her back, her hand resting on her bloated midsection. She looked at him, her eyes half-lidded, a small smile playing on her lips. “Go make me something,” she said, her tone easy-going, like she hadn’t just been using him. “I’m hungry.”
Brandon nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the taste still lingering. He swung his legs off the bed, his body aching, and headed to the kitchen. “Maybe tonight was enough. Maybe I bought myself some time.” He clung to that hope, fragile as it was.
And all he could do was wait.
**********
The weekend came around fast.
The jar was cold against Brandon’s skin, and looking through the warped glass as he waited often made him dizzy. He sat cross-legged, staring out at the room through the curved barrier. Megan had snapped her fingers that morning without a word, her expression bored as he shrank in front of her. Now, he was trapped again, a tiny prisoner on the nightstand, waiting for the inevitable.
The sound of the doorbell made him flinch. Megan sauntered out of the bathroom, toweling off her hair, wearing nothing but a loose tank top and underwear. “Coming!” she called, her voice sing-songy, like she was greeting an old friend. Brandon was swimming in suspense as he heard the door open, followed by the deep rumble of Derrick’s husky growls. Each time a new boy toy visited, he felt like he was in a casino waiting to see where the ball would land on a roulette table. All or nothing.
“Hey,” Derrick said, stepping inside. Brandon craned his neck, trying to see. Derrick’s shadow loomed across the floor, humongous and imposing. He was taller than Megan by a foot, his shoulders spacious enough to fill the doorway. His biceps strained against the sleeves of his tight black shirt, and his chest was a solid wall of muscle. He smiled, revealing perfect white teeth, his blonde hair cropped short and neat.
“You look good,” Megan said, leaning against the wall, her tone playful but laced with something darker. “Ready to play?”
Derrick chuckled, his voice deep and resonant. “We’re getting straight to this then?” He pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, revealing a body that looked like it had been carved from marble. His abs were perfectly defined, his pectus broad and hairless, every muscle rippling as he moved. He unbuckled his belt, letting his pants fall to the floor, and Brandon’s breath caught in his throat. Derrick was enormous everywhere, his thick, veiny cock already half-hard.
Megan’s eyes flicked to the nightstand, and for a moment, Brandon thought she might acknowledge him. But she didn’t. She just smirked and stepped closer to Derrick, running a hand down his chest. “Let’s see if you can keep up,” she purred.
Derrick grabbed her by the waist, lifting her effortlessly and tossing her onto the bed. Megan laughed, a sound that sent a chill through Brandon’s backbone, as Derrick climbed on top of her. The bed groaned under their combined weight, the frame slamming into the wall with a booming thud.
Brandon placed his palms to his temples, his heart pounding as Derrick’s gargantuan body moved over Megan’s. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet and rhythmic, punctuated by Megan’s orgasmic squeals. “Fuck, Derrick,” she gasped, “Harder.”
Derrick obliged, his hips smashing her like a jackhammer, the force of it shaking the nightstand. Brandon’s jar wobbled, teetering dangerously close to the edge. He braced himself, his tiny body trembling as the vibrations rattled through him. The air inside the jar felt thick, suffocating, the scent of sweat and sex permeating even through the glass.
Megan’s cries lengthened, more frantic, her legs wrapped around Derrick’s waist as she urged him on. “Yes, yes, yes,” she chanted, her voice breaking on the last word. Derrick grunted, his muscles flexing with each thrust, his body glistening with sweat.
Brandon couldn’t look away, even though he wanted to. He examined as Megan’s fingers tangled in Derrick’s hair, pulling him closer, her lips finding his in a messy, hungry kiss. Her moans were raw and unrestrained, a stark contrast to the controlled, almost clinical way she usually treated him.
The bed creaked clamorously, the headboard slamming into the wall with such force that Brandon thought it might break. “This is it,” he thought, his pulse slowing down. “She’s going to replace me. I’m next.” His destiny had arrived.
Brandon pressed his tiny hands against the glass, the vibrations from the bed rattling through his jar like an earthquake. He could see them—Megan’s beer belly jiggling with each thrust, Derrick’s massive frame towering over her, veins bulging on his arms as he pinned her down.
The realization hit him like a haymaker to the nose. He’d seen it before—Nathan, Cassie, the others. He’d watched them disappear into her, their screams muffled by the wet, squelching sounds of digestion. And now, it was his turn. Derrick was everything he wasn’t—bigger, stronger, more everything. Brandon could feel the weight of his own inadequacy bearing down on him.
Megan’s head whipped toward the nightstand, her eyes locking onto Brandon’s. Her cheeks were flushed, teeth sparkling in a wicked grin. “This is the best sex of my life!” she screamed, her voice raw and ecstatic. She licked her lips slowly, deliberately, her tongue dragging across the curve of her Cupid's bow. Brandon’s stomach churned. That look—it wasn’t just hunger. It was anticipation. She was savoring the thought of him, imagining the taste. She had waited 8 months for him to be replaced.
Brandon’s legs gave out, and he slumped to the bottom of the jar, gloominess possessing him. He could feel the tears welling up, but he blinked them back. Crying wouldn’t save him. Nothing would. He was just another toy to her, another conquest to be devoured when she got bored. The thought made him sick, but it also filled him with a strange, twisted resignation. “You knew this would happen,” he told himself. “You’ve known since the beginning.”
Megan’s cries reached a fever pitch as Derrick drove into her one final time. She let out a guttural scream, her fingers clawing at the sheets, before collapsing back onto the mattress, panting. Derrick rolled off her, his chest heaving, a triumphant smirk on his face. Brandon had hoped their sex would last even longer, prolonging his life.
“Good?” asked Derrick, his voice still steady despite the exertion.
Megan laughed, breathless. “Better than good. Perfect.” She glanced at the nightstand again, her eyes meeting Brandon’s for the briefest moment. Then she turned back to Derrick. “Stay for a beer?”
Brandon sighed to himself. Megan would get bored of him too eventually. She always did. And when she did, he’d be the one in her belly, screaming as she digested him alive. But for now, it was Brandon’s turn to be eaten.
And all Brandon could think was, “I’m fucked.”