My erotica.

I tell them to go back downstairs and continue working on their project.

"Imagine that you don't I'm up here cooking," I let slip out of my hungry mouth.

My skin sparks with small bits of sensation as I begin transforming into something else. My mind knows not of the outside world anymore. It only knows of this thing they call, "kitchen."

The knob turns slowly under my fingertips until I hear the familiar, click-click-click, signaling to me that it's about to get a lot hotter in here. I can feel the pan warping with pleasure as it soaks up

more and more heat.

My knife enters into the soft yellow flesh of the nectar which can only be known by one name. Swollen and fat with indulgence, butter clings helplessly to the blade as my the muscles in my forearm ripple in the gleam of the fire. With swift elegance, butter is flung loose of the blade, sloppily squirming about. The butter dissolves in delight, smiling as it sizzles with satisfaction in the warm arms of the pan.

I bite my lip as I submerge a thick, heavy slice of brioche into cream and egg. The brioche cries out but all that can be heard are the soft "thwops" as the air escapes its lunges. Their body is engorged with fluid as it lies there, motionless and cold.

My hands drag its body over into greedy butter. There is never enough butter for butter. Even as butter slurps up this new substance infused in its creation with butter, brioche they call it,

butter wants more. More butter.

The sound of the flesh cooking in the pan arouses others nearby. They emerge from downstairs supposedly finished with their project, but most likely unable to resist the smell of a fresh murder.

They attempt to come closer, to see the sacrifice as it transforms from cold and lifeless, to approaching the image of god. A quick flash of my now inhuman gaze makes sure

they keep their distance. They also bite their lip.

I breath in the scent in the air. Coconut oil from earlier in the bedroom still soft upon my skin mixed with what can now only be labeled and pure ecstasy.

Sweat begins to glisten on my forehead as I slide slice after slice into the oven, keeping it fresh for salivating holes that await, with no small amount of impatience.

I teach obedience next as I draw out the golden forms of subservience to the true god whose form they attempt to imitate. I tell them not to touch the plate as it is hot. They touch it anyways.

Their disobedience will be dealt with later.

As I said before, butter is always greedy and this case is no different. More butter is added to the presentations of servitude. After that has melted, an additional slathering occurs so that all forms can be experienced simultaneously.

Cooked. Melted. Raw.

Their legs quiver and their chin quivers as they take the sacrifice into an orifice. The mouth at first, perhaps others later. "This is the best fucking thing I've put in my mouth in a long time."

My eyes now gaze hungrily upon their skin as it is illuminated through the ingestion of such heavy quantities of butter.

My appetite will never be left satisfied. I realize this now.