The Chosen One
By My Little Worm Cliff — Featuring: Female Worship
Hank had never suffered through a more boring lunch in his life. Why he had ever agreed to bring this fool of a co-worker with him, he would never know. The man was yakking and yakking, about all the things that Hank found insufferably dull – sports, cars, blah, blah, blah.
And if the damn waiter took more than five more minutes to bring their order, he determined he was just going to get up and leave.
Hank cast his glazed eyes around the room – this tacky little diner to which he vowed he would never return. Boring place, boring people. Probably boring food, too. If it ever came.
Then he saw her, at a corner table, and his every sense jolted awake. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen – perfect in every feature, from her lustrous dark hair to her perfectly painted toenails peeking out of expensive sandals.
Hank utterly forgot his colleague, whose ramblings had long ago ceased to make any sense. He no longer cared if his lunch never came or if he ever went back to work.
The Goddess at the corner table stretched out her pretty legs and sighed. Plainly, she was bored here, too, and her order was also past due. Hank tried not to stare as she fiddled with a sugar packet. Then she tore it open and tipped up her head and he got the first glimpse of her delicious mouth – a wet pink tongue that stretched out naughtily as she poured the sugar onto it; a crescent of pretty teeth set in perfect pink gums. Glistening with the sugar crystals, her tongue licked around her lips.
Hank imagined the sheer delight of being transformed into one of those glittery specks and being dissolved by her warm saliva.
The Goddess crumpled the empty sugar envelope and dropped it onto the floor, as casually as if an invisible trash can were there.
Her waiter arrived and unloaded a sandwich for her. She took it without a word and held it in her pretty hands. Then she bared her gleaming, milk-white teeth. Hank imagined those teeth, sharp as knife blades, closing around his fingers and biting down until they pierced his skin, while her eyes revealed a Goddess’ lust to maim and kill.
He rubbed a scar on one finger and the memories came surging back, of when he was a very little boy, at the mercy of a babysitter not much older than he. How he had tried to bully her to get his way, jabbing his fingers at her face – how she opened her mouth and caught the digit and bit down, triumph in her eyes as she saw the panic in his, clamping down until her small teeth finally broke his skin and she muffled his screams with a sofa pillow, biting down with incredible force and sadistic glee until finally she felt she had done what she needed to do and let go.
He had never told anyone – when his folks saw the wound, he lied and said he caught his finger in the spokes of his bicycle. The girl had babysat him for five more years but never bit him again, because he knew better than to give her any more trouble.
Back in the world of today, Hank was trying not to stare as the Goddess inspected her sandwich and now opened her mouth to bite down. Effortlessly, she sheared off a bite – a lovely lady shark nipping into her doomed platter prey.
She began to chew, with her mouth gaping open wide. He felt the blood pounding in his veins as the bread, salami, cheese, jalapenos, olives, lettuce and tomato danced around in her mouth like flotsam at the edge of the tide. As the pieces stranded themselves upon the ivory reef of her teeth, her molars bore down and crushed them, then the wet rug of her tongue swept them up and mingled them together with her foaming saliva. Only when the whole mess was reduced to an utter pulp did she finally swallow – only to shear off another bite and repeat the process.
Imagine, Hank thought, what it would be like to be a tiny olive bouncing around in that wonderful wet cave, soaked in sweet spit, your glossy black sphere coated thicker and thicker with a gooey mess of pureed meat, bread and condiments, until finally her merciless tongue found you and pushed you into the crushing platform of her teeth and smashed you into salty fragments and then shoved you back into the vore and swallowed you down into the deadly darkness of her stomach to be dissolved and redistributed into her divine cells.
“Hank. Oh, Hank – are you gonna eat your lunch or just keeping watching the game?”
Hank’s reverie was shattered. His boorish lunch mate had stopped talking long enough to notice that their lunch had arrived. And the imbecile thought that Hank had been watching the ballgame on the tv on the wall behind him.
“Your face is blood red are you okay?” the man asked. Hank suppressed the urge to reach over and choke him.
“I’m – I’m okay,” he stammered.
“No, you’re not. Maybe I should call someone.”
Hank stood up, shakily. “I just need to splash some cold water on my face, that’s all.”
And he walked towards the restrooms, which took him towards the table where the Goddess was sitting.
If Hank thought a mortal could simply enter the presence of a Goddess and keep walking, Hank obviously hadn’t done enough reading. She looked up as he neared her table. She smiled. Hank felt himself weakening again.
“Keep walking,” he thought, “keep walking.”
“Stop a second,” she said, talking unconcernedly with her mouth half full.
Hank stopped.
She swallowed.
“I’ve got to go pee,” said the Goddess, ” and I need you to sit here for a second and keep this damned fly that has bugging the hell out of me away from my sandwich until I get back.”
She stood. Hank sat.
She walked away, her sweet, curvy rump swaying behind her. When that delicious vision had vanished, he looked down at her plate, where only a fragment of her sandwich remained. This was what she had bid him guard for her?
Besides the crumbs, one olive lay alone, snipped in half by her teeth. Hank felt a sudden urge to eat it, to taste what she had tasted.
“So you’re the chosen one.”
Hank jumped.
It was the waiter.
“What?” he asked, feeling confused.
“She comes in here all the time. Picks out someone. Leaves him with her bill.”
“She just went to pe – to use the restroom,” Hank stammered, feeling suddenly very stupid.
“Sorry, buddy, but if that’s what you think, you’ll be here a while,” said the waiter. “But you see, we’re in a bind. We can’t press charges — ”
“Don’t worry about that – I’ll pay the bill,” Hank said.
“You guys always do,” said the waiter. “We can’t press charges against her until somebody complains. Nobody ever does.”
“Life’s weird that way, I guess,” said Hank, savoring in his mind again the sight of that beautiful woman and of that sandwich so casually and openly being torn to bits in her mouth and of her smile – the confident smile of a hunter who had chosen and captured her prey with unerring skill.
He popped the olive into his mouth and contemplated the frantic activity of his immune system as it mobilized against whatever microorganisms she had left behind there.
He paid her bill, and his bill and said goodbye to his colleague and went back to work whistling.
