He walked down the motel hallway and the lights
above him flickered as he passed. His lanky, black hair kind of bounced with
his steps - it’s bobbed short and parted down the middle, he looked like a runway
supermodel - but this young man was a whore. The torn, faded jeans screamed it,
the cheap, wrinkled t-shirt commanded it, the cum in his hair bragged about it.
He won’t hesitate, he’ll 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 stops in front of me all I could see is white. He looked
in and I looked out and we meet somewhere in the middle. I let him into my room
and the hallway went dark, the lights in my room spark out. He stopped a few
feet in and turned around, red eyes glowing in the black, he curled 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 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 that
wants your cum.)
After
all, we are all lonely inside.
-excerpt from novel in progress borrowed flesh
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