I have been writing a lot of these.

I sauntered into the basement in a long, sexy dress with sparkles as though I was Jessica Rabbit and said, "Hey, baby."

Blue looked up at me. He was still in his flattering rope suit. "Please let me go," he said.

"Nope!" Instead of letting him go, I said, "You hungry?"

He didn't answer, but I could tell by his facial expression and also the context of the situation that he must be.

"You're hungry, aren't you?" I said again.

He just looked up at me with a weakened expression and then looked away.

"How's that canker sore?" I said.

This time he glared. I had, after all, bitten pretty hard. It was probably infected. He probably had a gigantic sore, hardly qualifying as "canker" at all.

"So. You're hungry."

"...Yes," he admitted, still glaring.

"Awesome! Let's get you some lunch, shall we?"

I danced back up the stairs and came back down with my carrying case.

"What... is that?" he said.

I threw it at him. He nudged the case with his head until he could see the netted opening.

"Is that... a turtle...?" he said, staring at my live turtle.

"Not just any turtle," I said. "It's your lunch!"

"Uhh... No thanks."

"Oh, you're not hungry? Okay, then, you don't have to eat anything, and you can go back to lying here alone."

"That would be preferable," he mumbled.

I took hold of the carrying case and whacked him the fuck across the head with the turtle.

"Ow!" he said. "What the fuck?! That's a live animal!"

"Aaaaand too bad," I said. I dropped the turtle back onto the floor. "So," I said. "Give me your feet."

"What?"

I took hold of his cute feet and cut the ropes off of them. Then I dragged him to a portion of the wall with chains and cuffs bolted to it, and locked the metal cuffs around his ankles and his thighs and hips so that he couldn't escape. He didn't fight back much, probably because he was so hungry. It had been a few days.

I then untied his upper body, leaving his legs still bound together. Speaking of things "being a few days," he smelled pretty bad. It occurred to me that I had not untied him to let him use the bathroom, ever.

"Have you pissed yourself?" I said brightly.

He looked mortified, and didn't seem to want to answer.

"It's okay," I said. "You couldn't help it." I stroked his cheek. "You lost control of your little body. Just like anyone would." He turned his face away. "Why do you always turn your face from me, huh?" I scratched the top of his head lovingly. "Here, let's make your lunch."

I finished untying his hands, and allowed him to move his upper body freely for a second. He took a minute to comprehend what was happening, then frantically began trying to untie the ropes around his waist, but I kicked him violently in the head. He didn't stop. I stomped his face into the concrete floor. He tried to grab at my ankles but I backed away and kicked the turtle's case toward him.

"Open it," I instructed.

He stared at it hazily for a minute, then opened the case and pulled out the scared turtle, which had pulled itself into its shell. I went to a drawer and pulled out a butter knife and tossed it to him. He picked it up.

"Wh...?"

"I sharpened it for you," I said. It was true; I had put the butter knife to a knife sharpener, and it was now slightly more functional for the job at hand.

He stared at the knife for a few seconds, looking at its awkward, jagged edges, then back at the turtle.

"Slaughter her," I said.

"W-with a butter knife?"

"Go ahead. She's your lunch. Slaughter her for me! I'll watch."

"But I-"

"You've killed a turtle before, right?"

He thought. "You mean that thing on the freeway that time? You saw that? How-"

"You killed him, so you can kill her, too," I said, gesturing to the animal.

"Oh come on," he groaned.

"Go ahead. Oh, and don't bother trying to cut the ropes. You're chained up, after all."

"I know that," he said.

"I just figured I'd remind you."

He grimaced, then slowly took the butter knife and picked up the turtle again, as though trying to think of the quickest way to end her life.

"Oh! Wait! I forgot," I said. I went upstairs and grabbed a boombox, then came back down with it. "Some music to relax you."

I pressed play and Pachelbel's Canon started playing.

"Ohh God," he said. "Oh God, please, not this song. Not classical."

I smiled. "Please, there's nothing bad about classical."

He put his head down. "No, no, no, I loved this song."

"Kill her," I said.

"Kill me," he whimpered.

"Not gonna happen," I said. "A reminder. I won't stop playing this song until you've killed and eaten the turtle."

"I have to eat it raw?!"

"Well, it's not like there's an oven down here."

"Oh, God, I'm gonna throw up."

"Please, there's nothing in you, anyway." I smiled. "Not even water, obviously."

"Fuck you!"

I sat down a little way past the point where he might be able to reach me. "Oh, by the way," I said. "Throw that knife at me and I'll bring out my collection of bamboo splinters, okay?"

He shuddered and proceeded to look at the turtle once more. He gulped and took the knife up again and stared at her. Slowly, slowly, he placed the knife against her neck and began trying to saw at it.

The turtle winced in pain and withdrew her head. He tried pulling the head back out, but she bit him and he retracted his hand, dropping the knife and swearing. He picked up the knife once more and murmured something to himself that I couldn't hear, paused, and then jabbed the knife's poorly-sharpened tip into the turtle's head-hole. He did this several times, and then blood started to come out of the shell. He stabbed and stabbed, and Pachelbel's Canon played, adding beautifully composed layers on and on, and the turtle's legs could be seen wiggling in pain inside the shell if you looked closely. When we were both fairly sure the turtle was dead, I handed him an ice pick and a mallet and said, "Crack her shell."

He didn't say anything, but instead just took the tools and began trying to break the belly of the shell. He did this for a while until some progress was shown, and then he reached into the break in the belly with both hands and began trying to pry it apart. No luck. He hammered the belly in more places until he had significant bloody cracks, and then he pried it apart again, this time managing to open a chunk. Guts spilled everywhere.

"Eat her," I said.

He shook his head.

I took the mallet and hammered one of his legs, and he screamed, and then he picked up the shell with shaky hands and began trying to suck the blood and guts out of the body. He managed to get a good chunk in his mouth and then chewed and tore parts off and swallowed. I watched him eat the turtle for a while. It was transfixing, really.

"Eat her until the shell is empty," I said.

He obeyed. I was beginning to break him very well. He ate and ate until the shell was filled with nothing alive or dead.

When he was done, he was shaking. The song, which I had put on repeat, stopped abruptly at the touch of my finger. I took the shell away from him and picked up the boombox and kicked the tools far out of reach, to the other end of the room. I began to climb the stairs.

"Have a good rest of your day," I said, leaving him chained to the wall.