He walks down the motel hallway and the lights above him flicker as he passes. His lanky, black hair kind of bounces with his steps - it’s bobbed short and parted down the middle, he looks like a runway supermodel - but this man is a whore. The torn, faded jeans scream it, the cheap, wrinkled t-shirt commands it, the come in his hair brags about it. He won’t hesitate, he’ll fuck you and leave and he can do it all without talking, so he’s popular. The shadows in the hall mix with the shadows around his eyes and when he stops in front of me all I see is white. He looks in and I look out and we meet somewhere in the middle. I let him into my room and the hallway goes dark, the lights in my room spark out. He stops a few feet in and turns around, red eyes glowing in the black, he curls a finger at me and I step inside.
(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 can hear the body send off electricity full of excitement. And if you’re fucking a beast you can 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 that wants your cum.)
After all, we are all lonely inside.