Bacon

It begins with the smell. It drifts gently into the air, the madness, the sweet salty aroma of bacon.

"Milady," Mal stood in front of me, plate in hand. He was naked save a cotton lace apron-and I was torn, but I took the plate, sat up and began chewing on the bacon. "This 21st century food is something else. Shiny," he took a piece of bacon and popped it in his mouth.

"Is there more?"

"More? But of course, there's always more!" He laughed and went back to the kitchen, his bare bottom a veritable melody of exquisite flesh.

I sat up and surveyed the surroundings. It was a large bright room with red fabric walls and white drapes made of the finest silk. The sun streamed in- a spotlight spread on the carpet where a cat lay. He awoke, stretched and began licking his front paws.

"Hey! Mal!"

He came in running, "What is it?"

"What is this?"

"This is Cattius. He used to belong to an evil overlord, but he's mine now."

"I didn't know you had a cat."

"There's a lot you don't know about me," he said, sitting on the bed, pulling me on top of him.

"I like the apron."

"Funny, real funny," he said. "It's YOUR apron."

"Oh yeah." I twirled a lock of hair around my finger. "I forgot. You know, it looks very nice on you."

"Ha, ha." He flipped it up, revealing more than one could ever want, bacon-wise. "Have some," he said.

I bent to my task, both of us on our knees, his hands massaging my back and then, when he could bear it no more, he threw me back on the bed. He covered me. Sublimely.

And then? We had more a bacon.

I remain, happily porcine,

Hilda Stinson