
Tiny Is Toast
I find a tiny man squirming right in the middle of my toast — but do I care? Not even a little. I lean in like I’m listening… then shrug and smirk, “Oh well.” He’s already part of the meal. Watch me take loud, sloppy bites — chewing right beside him, tongue flicking out with mushed bread and butter. Then… chomp. Right over him. I chew him down with the sandwich, rolling my tongue, savoring the crunch. I spit him out like trash — just to see his terrified face. Disgusted? Good. I laugh and lick him straight off the table into my half-chewed feast. Final bite. Final chew. Final deep, throaty swallow — with him trapped in the mess of my mouth. All natural, dark-haired Goddess dominance. No mercy. Just hunger.
What would you do if you were on my plate?
