The Pigtown Chronicles: Chapter 3.8 – The Hole in the Wall

Samuel pushed his way out onto the street, taking a few deep breaths of the cold night air. He hadn’t even gathered his coat from the studio before he’d abandoned the young man he’d picked up from Depot, but he hoped that the chill might settle him, ground him for a moment. He flexed his hands, and tried to shake the sensation of that young man’s flesh, how it had bent and twisted, how fresh it had felt, throbbing and alive and it could be so many things, so much more than it was. He picked a direction and walked away from his studio, hands shoved down deep in his pockets, both for warmth, and because he was afraid that simply brushing up against any of the men sharing the sidewalk with him would draw the desires and sensations right back to the surface, where he might not be able to stop himself from doing something beautiful.

Despite the hour, the sidewalks of Pigtown were bustling. He made sure to give them a wide berth, but found himself looking past the gear, the clothes, to the flesh beneath, wondering what it would feel like, what it would look like, what it could look like. He had moved through so many mediums as an artist before this, both in two dimensions and in three, looking for something that could effectively communicate the visions he had in his mind, and now, each person passing him looked like a pigment. He thought of what he could do with them alone, he wondered what might happen if he took those two, and perhaps a bit of that third, and blended them all together. That skin, covered with that hair, stretched over those muscles, with the bones hollowed and shortened, perhaps. He had to forcefully remind himself that they were people. People! He slipped into the mouth of an alley to avoid a couple walking hand in hand down the sidewalk, and followed them with his eyes, their two hands melding together. They were close; they could be closer. They could be one, or many. He could articulate their desire with their own bodies. It would be an exquisite artwork.

There was a sound behind him. He turned, and there against the wall, one leather clad fellow had shoved a young cub up against the brick, yanked down his leather shorts, and was driving his cock into his hole. Helpless, Samuel just watched them fuck He had many of these sorts of acts on these streets and in these alleys, and yet, he had never seen them like he now did. The physicality of it, the pistoning, the sound of the flesh meeting and undoing and opening and leaking and crashing. He wanted to walk over and strip them of their clothes, push them together and pull them apart again, different, put them into perpetual motion, a testament to this one moment. 

He wondered what might happen to them, their internal lives. Perhaps the spirit inhabited the flesh, some separate thing that would be expunged in the process. Maybe the mind simply was the body itself. He could pry open the skull, peel it back, crack it open, spread it apart, pick and choose the bits he desired and discard the rest. Perhaps something new would come forth, some new consciousness, a new being, glad to be alive, the synthesis of flesh giving birth to something more than the sum of its parts. Sex was a desire for closeness, after all. Intimacy. To be inside someone, because the mind could never fully penetrate another, not as one could with their body. As he watched, and thought, the man came in the cub’s hole, pumped a sizable load inside him, and without a word, detached himself. The union came apart and he slipped out the mouth of the alley and down the sidewalk, not even giving Samuel a glance as he passed. 

The cub lingered a bit longer, still recovering, and turned around to lean against the wall, his own cock hard and excited. He glanced around, saw Samuel staring at him, and flashed him a smile, turned around and bent back over against the wall. An invitation, it would seem. He knew he shouldn’t. It was too risky, too dangerous, but there, he saw something, again. Something like the throbbing, undulating flesh in the VIP suite of Depot, something like that vision of Parker in the restroom, that moment he had experienced as terror at the time, but which he now thought of as something else entirely. He stumbled forward into the dim light of the alley, reached out with his hands, and felt the hot, young flesh, kneaded it, groped it, the young man moaning in pleasure and excitement. He wanted it, the flesh wanted it, wanted to be taken and used and warped and satisfied. 

Samuel didn’t know how he did it, exactly, any of it. He came around behind the young man, reached up, laid his own hands on the young man’s, and pushed them against the brick, and then pushed the flesh into the brick itself. The flesh did not disappear, and neither did the brick–you could say, perhaps, that bits of the wall came alive, you could see where the skin began to flake and turn red, almost like a sunburn, where the stone began to give slightly. The young man felt it happen, without pain, tried to pull his hands free, but couldn’t. Samuel ran his hands down his arms, pressing them against the wall, merging them together, the stone and mortar warm and flexing, hard and rough to the touch, yet with give, all the way to his shoulders, the young man’s face pressed hard against the rough surface now. Samuel stepped back for a moment, considered it, then picked up one leg, while the young man tried to kick, but rather than deal with resistance, Samuel simply pushed it, warped it, muscle and bone and tendon all melting down into one mass inside a now floppy leg, then shoved it against the wall, into the wall like the young man’s arms. First one, then the other, leaving him suspended there, horrified and confused.

Samuel pressed a hand against the man’s head, gently, but he wanted him aware. If he simply pushed his head and brain into the brick, he would mostly understand himself as a wall–but he wasn’t a wall. He would be a hole in a wall. He pushed the man’s head down instead, shoving it down into his neck, into his chest, down deep into his guts and groin, then pushed the upper part of his body against the brick, continuing the process, angling the body up, arching the small of the back, ass now available and eager, cock and balls still hanging below. Those it wouldn’t need, as a hole. He gripped around the base of the cock, tighter, the flesh constricting then coming away. He pushed the now detached member into the eager hole, then hollowed it out, feeling the flesh shudder as the nerves joined, growing more sensitive now. He pushed his hand into the hole, pulled the testes up from the inside, rewired them, and when his hand came free, so did a gush of precum drooling from the hole onto the asphalt below, the flesh shuddering from its new orgasmic pleasure. He laid the hands on the small of the back, the head inside still addled and terrified and confused. He eased it, simplified it, converted the bits of the mind dedicated to that which no longer mattered, and turned all of its attentions to the hole that it was now. No need for higher order thinking, no need for those old senses of smell, sight, or hearing. All was touch and taste now–nothing else mattered, nothing else could even be experienced, or understood. 

He stepped back, admiring his new work of art. There, suspended in the brick wall of the building, was simply an ass, gaping, winking and drooling precum, eager to be filled, meant to be filled, flesh with no other purpose beyond that simple drive and desire. The pleasure and excitement that Samuel felt now that the deed was done was impossible to articulate, but as it eased and settled, it curdled into shame and horror as forbidden pleasures often do. He stepped back up to the hole, ran his hands over it, wondering how he could reverse what he’d done to the young man, bring him back, but he couldn’t feel it, he couldn’t see it. He had erased that old form from existence. It was gone, he was gone, and now, there was just a hole in the wall, nothing else.

“You’re a new one, since I’ve been away,” a voice said, and terrified that someone had observed what he’d done, Samuel whirled around, an explanation forming on his lips, as a leather clad fellow stepped out of the shadows at the deep end of the alley. The brim of his muir cap was pulled low, casting most of his face in shadow, aside for the sly grin of his mouth. “Don’t mind me, now. If you need to feed, feel free. I was going to take him once he was alone again, but this has been much more exciting.”

“Look, I…I don’t know what I was doing, alright?” Samuel said, “No one would believe you if you said anything anyway.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me telling on you, I’m no friend of authority. We’re compatriots, really. A couple of aberrations, as they like to say. Not my favorite word, really, but rarely do we get to decide what we are called.” The leatherman stepped forward, sniffed the air, and then his mouth turned down slightly. “No, not…what are you? I’ve never smelled something like you before. Something very new, it would seem.”

Samuel turned away from him then, reached the sidewalk and headed back towards his studio, but ahead of him, from a shadowed doorway, the darkness condensed, and out stepped the leatherman from the alley–though there is no way he could have gotten there so quickly. Samuel came up short. “How did you do that?”

“You walk away from me when I’m asking you questions, and then have the nerve to expect answers of your own? That seems rather rude,” the man said.

“I don’t have an answer for you! I don’t–I’ve never done something like that before. I’m an artist, I…it just…happened, like that. I saw it, and I made it, and…”

“And you got nothing from it?”

“What?”

“You didn’t…feed on it? Take something for yourself?”

“I don’t–no! It wasn’t like that at all.”

“Curious.”

They looked at one another for a moment, and then the leatherman said, “To answer your question then, since you were kind enough to give me what you could, my name is Shadow. I thought we were…similar, and while I think we still are, we are not quite the same. Still, I find you interesting, and won’t be eating you anytime soon.”

Another man came down the sidewalk, passing close, and the same darkness that had collected in the doorway, opened up around him and Shadow, and they seemed to disappear–at least from sight. There was a scream, though it seemed rather distant, and after a few moments, the darkness fell away, and Shadow remained, though the man was gone. A flat thing of darkness seemed to scuttle off into the night, but it could have just been a glamour in the light. “Much better–I was rather famished. It was a pleasure to meet you, in any case. I’ll be interested to see how you…develop.”

Shadow stepped back into the darkness, and when the light faded back in, he was gone. Samuel hustled his way back to his studio, wondering how much of that had been some nightmarish hallucination, or if he was dreaming on the mattress in his studio with that young man, or if perhaps all of that had in fact happened. Inside, the young man was gone, as Samuel had known he would be, somehow. Exhausted, and yet sleepless, he sat down at his desk, looked out the window to the streets below, hands quivering with excitement. He’d made it. Art–a true art, from deep inside himself, for the first time. He sent a text to Rod, just a location, nothing more, and that was the last thing he recalled clearly before waking up in the morning, alone on the mattress in his studio.

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