He walked down the motel hallway and the lights above him flickered as he passed. His lanky, black hair kind of bounced with each step – it was bobbed short and parted down the middle, he attained the aura of a runway supermodel - but this young man was a whore. The torn, faded jeans screamed it, the cheap, wrinkled t-shirt commanded it, the dried cum in his hair bragged about it. He wouldn’t hesitate, he’d fuck you and leave and he could do it all without talking, so he’s popular. The shadows in the hall mixed with the shadows around his eyes and when he stopped in front of me all I could see was white. He looked in and I looked out and we met somewhere in the middle. I let him into my room and the hallway went dark, the lights in my room sparked out. He stopped a few feet in and turned around, red eyes glowing in the black, he curled a finger at me and I slowly closed the door behind me.
(When everything is dead it gets quiet. Quiet enough to hear muscles move or blood rush. Quiet enough to hear penetration at its deepest point where flesh touches flesh and you could hear the body send off electricity full of excitement. And if you’re fucking a beast you could hear him purr beneath you, bent in front of you, vulnerable for you in the utter black that is around you. A beast from fire will lay for you with smoke and char as you succumb to the demon who wants your cum.)
After all, we are all lonely inside.