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50 Shades of Grape Pie
When it finished, I looked at him, breathlessly.
“Nobody has ever done that to me before,” I said, trembling.
“I know,” he replied, the smile of satisfaction still on his face like an egg on a piece of toast on a breakfast buffet plate that someone has left on the table after departing the hotel restaurant because they thought they were hungrier than they were. “I could tell.”
“How?” I asked.
“You were a perfect circle. Nobody had ever cut into you before and removed a slice.”
It was true. I looked down at myself and felt ashamed. No longer perfectly round, I now had about an eighth of myself missing, where he had cruelly cut out the slice before gorging himself on it, like a man who loves turnips but who hasn’t had a turnip in months and who has discovered a delicious turnip.
A small amount of grape filling was oozing out from where he had cut out the slice. I wanted to cover myself up, to cover up my shame, but I couldn’t, as I was pie.
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