Klint rubs his knife clean against his dingy shirt. He thinks I never notice blood, metallic taste that lingers from a kiss, or his hands wiped clean across my chin. I get caught on a phrase, where’s the cat…the cat..where is she? It’s my OCD, he reminds me. His dumbfounded expression—the cat, she roams, you know, cats, cats stalk their prey for days, no loyalty, the cat…is fine.
Klint rubs his hands over my ass and I’m tense. He loves a challenge. I’m so worried. I say, she always comes back.
Klint kisses my neck. My collarbone. Licks my ear rhythmically. His dick is hard. He never says anything but breathes heavy.
It’s dark. Outside the sky is clear. The moon fills up our room where Klint sleeps through every hour. I listen for the cat. There is nothing but Klint. Breathing, breathing, his beating heart, so loud, his knife staring up at me from the nightstand.
Morning and the bed is empty. I’m alone. The sun is high. How long? I feel tired, still. It’s finally quiet, and I hear the cat. I call out, Here, here. Here, kitty, kitty, I’m here… Klint answers. He’s cleaning his knife as he enters and says, breakfast in bed. I’m not hungry.
Klint is under the covers licking me, and it feels like a cold wet rag. He squeezes my ribs until I let out a scream, and his sweaty palms slide to compress my hips until I buck against his tongue. He almost comes.
Dark is pouring across my face. The knife is back on the nightstand, sharp and smooth. I can’t feel my legs. I call out to the cat. Klint comes. He comes and he comes. The cat is quiet. I feel her somewhere close and can’t know where.
Klint licks his knife and looks at me, his dick is a threat between my legs. I can’t feel it stick into me, can only see the blood trickling down each thigh into Klint’s open mouth, thrusting tongue, trusting I will scream only if he says when.
When is the cat coming home? I dare not ask. I hear her scratching to be with me. Escaping and returning a dozen times.
