<span style="font-weight: bold">Samantha Belweather</span><br/><br/>“That’s a rather<span style="font-style: italic">niche</span>interpretation, Jules,” I said, “a<span style="font-style: italic">subversive</span>one, even.<span style="font-style: italic">Most</span>women interpret the moral of<span style="font-style: italic">Juliet</span>to be that they shouldn’t worry about<span style="font-style: italic">food</span>’s feeling’s, even if it is<span style="font-style: italic">cute</span>and<span style="font-style: italic">interesting</span>- and more broadly that Montegue women shouldn’t get worked up if their brothers run off with Capulet women… all sewers lead to the sea, after all,” I smiled, “and the bonds of stomachly sisterhood are<span style="font-style: italic">far</span>stronger that those between genders.” I paused. “Also, that if you have a tasty brother you should eat him<span style="font-style: italic">before</span>he marries, or he’ll belong to his bride.” I shrugged. “But I guess your interpretation is fine too, if it makes you feel better.”<br/><br/>The tone of the conversation had turned just a<span style="font-style: italic">little</span>political and uncomfortable, so I was glad of the distraction when Jules identified the food I’d ordered - far<span style="font-style: italic">earlier</span>than I’d expected it.<br/><br/>The waitress coughed discreetly as she approached our table, a much<span style="font-style: italic">smaller</span>plate which I took to be Jules’s in her hand, whilst another vore carried the trussed-and-prepared man that I’d be eating.<br/><br/>“Your pardon, Madame,” she began, “but another guest with the same order preferred an<span style="font-style: italic">alternative</span>meal, and the dish is prepared to perfection if you’d prefer to dine immediately.”<br/><br/>From behind, a gurgle as a vorish woman slipped from a obscured booth, her stomach full and roiling. No date rose from the seat opposite, though she snagged the man’s jacket that hung their forlorn, draping it over her shoulders against the cold.<br/><br/>Half-casually, still-seductively, I wrapped my leg around Jules’s - it wasn’t unpleasant, but it’d trip him if he tried to flee. I wasn’t in the mood to chase down food dressed like this.<br/><br/>“And<span style="font-style: italic">my</span>companion?” I asked the waitress.<br/><br/>“Naturally, a man’s meal has also become available,” she explains, “a dish of finely prepared noodles with prawns and squid.”<br/><br/>It wasn’t what Jules had ordered, but he’d slightly annoyed me, and I was<span style="font-style: italic">hungry</span>... and as I woman, not just as his employer, I<span style="font-style: italic">expected</span>him to follow my lead when I knew what was best for him - or if I wanted to eat him.<br/><br/>“That’ll be fine,” I told her, and she laid the meal before Jules - then turned to help her colleague place the far larger platter of vermicelli’d boy before<span style="font-style: italic">me</span>. The stockboy’s eyes were wide with fear, the process of<span style="font-style: italic">preparation</span>having not been painless, and giving him time to anticipate his fate. Even the hot vermicelli on his sensitive stomach couldn’t be comfortable. I picked up my chopsticks, and began to eat it, smearing the hot oil up his chest and down to more sensitive parts, just to watch him squirm. I wanted him aware and wriggling when I finally sent him down.