And now I was lying in a kind of cooking pot myself, about to become food. Was that what I wanted? It was only supposed to be an experiment.
But why had the soup been made with ingredients chosen specifically for me?
I tasted the soup in my bathtub. The soup of which I was a part. I couldn't deny that it tasted good. Far too good for just an experiment.


The heat was now becoming more intense. Had I used too many candles? It was strange; on the one hand, I was aroused, my penis hard and ready for anything, and yet I was relaxed, ready to give my body. I couldn't deny it, the image I presented was erotic and yet bizarre. My athletic figure became one with the soup.


I was slowly getting tired, my grip on the cigarette was weakening. My eyes were getting heavy. But suddenly I was wide awake again.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway. Not the usual creak. Sharper. Deliberate. Footsteps. Too light for the postman, too hesitant for a burglar. My hand with my cigarette froze halfway to the ashtray. The broth sloshed against my ribs as I turned towards the door.