Feed me, feed me, feed me, feed me, feed me, feed me, feed me IT said, but I ignored the voice and leaned on the bar to drink my beer. It was always crowded in The Hole, Chicago's unpublicized but best-known leather hangout. The place needed no advertisement; its patrons got the word out beyond the city's limits. Actually, it was known in places as far away as Asia.

Poofies, bunnies, queens, or anyone with other than manly traits, couldn't be found in The Hole, primarily because their needs for attention went largely ignored by the mostly reticent crowd. A crowd of leather daddies, boys, butch bikers, outlaws, and other fringes, didn't bother with glittery, techno-clone outfits to dance away the night nor were they frenzied into trances under search lights and laser beams, where pile-driving bass pounded dancers and screaming meemees shook the rafters.

Music in The Hole was an afterthought, was garnish placed quietly beside two-inches of beef. And beef there was: man beef, harnessed hairy beef, beef pumped up and squeezed in every variation of leather, rubber, latex, uniform, and construction combinations conceivable. Bulging biceps displayed preferences with tightly wrapped straps or tattoos, and bushy smiles conspired under gleaming eyes to relay something more exciting than—as Danny Devito so raunchily expressed, " . . . a poke in the whiskers."

And there were whiskers, lots of them, of various lengths and thicknesses that crowned chiseled faces, faces that seldom smiled but that caught approving glances. These were worn faces, faces that told the owner's history, a sinister history, perhaps an intriguing history.

I came to The Hole looking for intrigue, looking for history, looking for . . . hell, I didn't know what, but I did know that I would welcome any sinister performer who could survive my hunger. And I looked at all The Hole had to offer: tough men, mean men, men with careless intentions; men bored with routine, bored with the same hunt; men bored with a world slowly filling with squishy-middle, dough-faced, candy asses.

Feed me, feed me, feed me, feed me . . .

I took another sip of beer, chased it with tequila, shifted my stance and allowed my hard cock to inch farther down my leg where it oozed into a cooling and growing spot of precum. Looking around again, I sighed, avoided eye contact, but pushed my ass out to catch just the right man: he had to be big, beefy, solid, and smooth. But if I had to, I'd accept a hirsute.

Feed me, damn you!

I don't know exactly when the voice started . . . last summer, I think. I just remembered waking to obey it: pulling on my chaps, harness, vest, boots, and hat—the leather equivalent of putting out my red light—and walking to The Hole.

Are you going to feed me tonight? Or will I go without again? You know I can't go without for long. Why don't you feed me?

Initially I was able to ignore the voice, but its insistence, it's dark growlings, urged me to look at men I otherwise wouldn't have considered: the scared ones; the obese ones; the ultra butch ones with a queen screaming to get out; the ones—through marvels of surgery and chemicals—painfully stretched, bleached, and sedated; the ones wishing to be near a fire, clinking wine glasses and slipping into lusty intoxication; or the ones looking to overcome their own self-consciousness. IT, however, preferred the cocky ones, those more than self-assured, who strutted with overdone arrogance, as if they were the center of creation.

Sometimes, I refused to feed IT, and its desperation would subside to a distant echo; that is, if I had enough liquor and pills, and usually enough was never enough. I needed numbness to slide to apathy, and apathy to collapsed to disassociation. Intoxication became my means of palliative care, and my professional life was suffering greatly because of it. I loved lingering in a state of dissociation, because when I resided there, the voice became manageable, decreasing to an echo from a well that barely reached my mind. Nonetheless, its voracity always pushed through at the height of its need to be fed.

Tonight, its need was greater than it had been in a while, so I walked around in the semi-darkness of The Hole, gave non-committed nods to the disqualified, stopped briefly to considered possibilities, and teasingly moved on to maybes. On this night, foolishly I believed I could manage the voice, have one last beer, and slip away in the darkness. So, I ordered the beer, practically slumped over the bar, and pulled crumbled bills from my pocket.

While sorting out payment through bleary eyes, I was stopped by a hairy hand. "I got it," the owner of the hand said and placed another a large and hairy hand on my shoulder. I followed the hairy hand placed over mine to its owner. Damn, he had beautifully dark eyes, hypnotically clear and green, smiling green eyes that contradicted his stern expression.

"The eyes are the windows to the soul," my mother used to say when she knew I had done something, "because liars hid there." If that were true, I couldn't let him look too deeply into mine. But I kept sneaking glimpses at his eyes, surround by, perhaps, a nautical complexion that held an even expression—an expression regularly seen on men in The Hole. Too often they had to prepare themselves for "bullshitters" in the form of liars, cons, queens in butch clothing, and other contradictions.

I slurred my thanks, but the stranger didn't walk away—they usually did when they saw my mildly drunken state—but he stood by and showed his massive, muscle body: pounds of solid masculinity that resembled vertical angles, and—if his codpiece gave good indication—a fat and long cock. He showed straight white teeth between full pink lips, horseshoed under a bushy moustache that widened when he grinned and that made my cock jump. He fished out Dunhills, Menthol—the aroma brought back the past; I'd quit years ago but the smell still made my precum ooze even more. He leaned on the bar, gripped his Red Dog, squinted a smoky eye, and searched my eyes with the other. Whatever he saw didn't matter to me since I had made contact. Everything was set in motion. I wanted rescue from IT. Perhaps, this man, a towering mass of bulging fuzziness, his solid and muscular body oozing testosterone, would be the one to slake the voice and release me from my hell.

Feed me, feed me, feed me, feed me, feed me, feed me, feed me, feed me, feed me . . .

We talked over the usual: occupations, hobbies, until the topic we wanted to talk about came around: sex. Then we danced the innuendo: I made a suggestive offer, he countered; I counter-offered, he considered; and we moved to neutral corners to start the process over. Instinctively I became the bitch by letting him sniff my scent and mark his territory with nipple pinches, ass squeezes, and pecs slaps. I loved his come-ons. The voice did, too, which was silent—for the moment.

The evil entity had moved to my asshole; I felt it squirming.

Detached sensation brought from me mixed emotions: intellectually I didn't want the stranger's advances. I tried hard not to like him, but intoxication and want overpowered me. As always, I was no longer in control, since the voice, the entity—or whatever it was—now moved me toward the inevitable.

Feed me, feed me, feed . . . how long must I wait? It was back in my head; I had to follow through.

"Do you really need to know my name?" the stranger asked. I chuckled at the seventies cliché, but did I really need to know? It would help that I didn't. I always regretted knowing the men I had fucked.

Or is it fucked over? You do what you must to save yourself. That's the truth of it, isn't it? Well . . . isn't it?

Silence was always best when IT spoke the truth.

"I dunno, I'll have to scream something," I said holding his gaze, swimming in his glistening eyes, and swooning from intoxication and barbiturates. Barbs always helped me feed IT.

"Sir will do nicely," he commanded, rather than requested, and followed with more instructions. "Finish your beer and come with me."

"Yes, sir," I said in mild sarcasm before gulping my drink and pulling along misgivings like a sack of bricks.

Through a foggy night and with a foggy head, I staggered behind "Sir" along the damp street to the end of the block where townhouses sat shoulder-to-shoulder. We entered a sparely, yet tastefully decorated, home filled with masculine art that clung to creamy walls. Angled track lighting showered everything in mellow softness, and in most corners, gaudy nude statutes froze in mid-stride. One held the world on its shoulder (I felt a tug in my asshole); another stood in nonchalance, exposing alabaster genitalia; and some trickled water from their fat penises. Mood lighting, under numerous plants and trees, streak shards up the walls, while a fire lazily flickered warmth in front of a leather couch with matching chairs, all footed by a fur rug. The house was a sharp contrast to the gruff man who ordered me about.

"Follow me," Sir said, his tone harsher than in the bar. He was all business in gathering items for the session I was sure we would have. From his struts around the place, purposeful and haughty, he was pretty sure of—

They all were cocksure when they got you home, to their secure bases, in safety to launch assaults. Just like the others: all anxious to get to the business of domination, to ride rushes of adrenaline through the administration of pain. It's their heroine; it makes them feel more than mortal. Remember that, you weak excuse for a man. Everyone wants to feel like a god. But what can you get from a god you've never seen? What can pleas into the empty air do for you? All you have to do is feed me, and I will take care of you.

"Just shut up, please!"

"What?" Sir asked, returning to the living room in just leather pants with a leather strap crossed over one hairy shoulder. He kept his hat on and had donned mirrored glasses.

"Nothing, Sir," I said standing with hands behind my back and waiting.

"Well, come along then," he said, standing legs apart, fisting a leather cat-o-nine tails. He had changed his tone: commanding, menacing, cryptic. I was getting hard just looking at him, just hearing his orders. I had needs, too: I wanted—no needed—his mistreatment; it helped with the guilt afterwards. The thought sped through my mind as he moved through a length of hall to, I suspected, the playroom.

Yes, they all had playrooms—my dining rooms, my feasting rooms, my rooms to—

"Strip and put your clothes in there," Sir said, pointing to a shallow closet just inside a spacious room where various "equipment" hung from hooks and loops along the wall. A large light, hanging from metal rafters, spotted warmth over a crude examination table where restraints hung at each corner and along the sides. A sawhorse with its set of restraints hugged the wall next to a bowl-less toilet, framed in metal that lurked in the shadows. Next to it, an X of wood leaned against the wall, its own restraints at each point.

I hung my clothes in the closet next to an array of uniforms and over at least a dozen boots to accessorize any role imagined. Just outside the closet, gas masks, urine funnels for the wearer's head hung on rusty nails over a table of butt plugs, dildos, benwa balls, and rectal expanders. Other necessities sat in rows on the table, dispersed with several rolls of paper towels and Wet-One containers. I could still smell a hint of piss as I passed near the funnels and stood near the accessories table. I noticed that the windowless room's cinderblock walls added to its dankness, and the stained cement floor gave it a warehouse appeal, a perfect setting for detached ritualistic pleasures and for the roles we were to play: me the possessed, he the possessor.

"Here, put this on, Meat. That's my name for you," he said, then paused for effect. "If you have a problem with it, get your things and leave."

I said nothing.

"Very good, Meat. You know how to behave." He threw a greasy jock in my face, "Put this on." I grabbed for the jock, missed, and watched it fall to the oily floor. Searing pain laced across my back when I bent to pick it up.

"Did I say you could move, Meat?" He walked around me, as I remained bent over. Even through the pain, I noticed his shiny boots, and thought what a shame to ruin their high sheen. The gloss would soon be lost under a slather of my liquids that surely would flow freely from my ass. "I see, however, you forgot some training. Straighten up."

I met a deliciously evil curl trailing along his lips as he raised the cat-o-nine again. "I'm sure this will remind you." Painful fingers gripped my back, curled around to my stomach, and forced me to draw in my back. I gritted my teeth and felt the delicate folds of my asshole slowly expand with each lash of the tails. My guilt was dissolving; my head was reeling; and the absolving pain burned away the last of regret that was weighing heavily in my gut. "Now you may speak."

"Yes, Sir," I managed through clenched teeth as the pain glowed around the stinging welts.

"That's better. Now put that damn jock on and face me." I put the jock on and turned to his juicy grin, a grin juiced with pride and cruelty. "Excellent," he said with shallow breathing, the shallow breathing of lust, "you're coming along nicely: Look at that cock—nice and hard, Meat. Yes, coming along very nicely." And the tails bit into my back a few more times. I could taste the pain, but I said nothing; and he looked at me, expectantly, awaiting my gratitude and worship.

"You may speak." He said after securing the tails to his belt and folding his arms.

I looked at my sheathed cock and felt my continued ablution, and welcomed the slow journey to numbing. "Thank you, Sir," I said breathlessly, but I didn't feel my hard-on—I didn't feel anything.

The evil in my asshole had my full attention, as my hole continued to expand: inner and outer rings mawed to expose my ruby flesh. The warm flesh of my rectum folded out in a bloody donut, as the squirming in my bowels combined with the barbs to send me headlong to ecstasy. The pain, the pleasure, and the relief of feeding IT detached my soul from my flesh and helped me float to the ceiling to watch in safety.

"Over here, Meat," Sir said, patting the examination table. The me on the floor moved to where he stood and waited. "On your back," he threw over his shoulder, moving to the shadows of a far corner, and as he returned, I heard whiny wheels and the gentle kiss of glass to metal. He had pulled over a carrier with two large water bottles. I stared at them not knowing what to do. Explaining that I never cleaned out my ass only would have brought more lashes, so I said nothing and allowed the evil to explain. Each time he placed the tube in my hole, it was pushed back out.

"Are you doing this own purpose, Meat? Do you need some more training? Do you think you can take any more?" He asked more in warning than anything.

The me on the table stared into the rafters and remained silent.

"You may speak."

"No, Sir, I'm not," the me on the table and the me in the rafters said in unison. May I explain, Sir?"

"You may, but make it quick, Meat." I saw his brief expression, one of a man who thought he had heard two voices but wasn't really sure.

"Sir, I never clean but I'm never messy, Sir."

"What bullshit are you talkin', Meat?" he asked, confusion skewing his beautiful face, and although he chuckled, he wasn't amused.

The pain was intense when he grabbed my cock and squeezed with rapid pressure. This wasn't training; the Evil didn't think so either. His grip was a vice of vindictiveness, the action of an angry man, not of a controlled minister of pain. When I retreated to the me in the rafter, the pain ended, but suddenly I felt breath-stopping, eye-bulging pain. I had returned to the me on the table a bit too soon. He had my balls squeezed to the point of turning my sac to a purple light bulb. The pain intensified to aching strain when he, slowly, agonizingly, twisted my sac left, then right. I fought through the pain until time stopped and I drifted above the examination table, above my perch, and above the world.

Then I after awhile, I returned to the me, drowsed in exquisite pleasure, perched safely in the raf—

I want my feast, Evil interrupted, feed me, feed me, feed me, feed me, feed me! "Enough! I have waited long enough!"

"What was that, Meat?"

You can hear me, now. Good, Evil said, but the voice hadn't come from my lips and the me on the table and in the rafters no longer spoke in unison.

I'm talking to you, you pathetic little man.

Sir looked around but he saw no one. He looked at me, but my glazed eyes and slacked face held no explanation. I wasn't there—I didn't want to be. Evil had taken full control.

You, strapped in your leather, with your ultra masculine airs, beating adoration from the victims you drag to your playroom. You prey on the foolish who think they need little men like you to make them feel wanted, needed, and protected. But you feed your own insecurities. Yes, little man, I know of your fears; I know you lie in bed wondering what's going to become of your pathetic life when you are no longer appealing and when your deviances fall out of favor. You are nothing more than a coward in master's clothing.

"Shut your fuckin' mouth, Meat," he screamed, as fists forming at his sides. "Shut up, Goddamn you!" But I only looked at him. He had seen for himself that my lips still held placidly together as if a simpleton.

"What tha fuck's goin' on here? Who's in here?" he asked to the shadowy corners; to silent straps, chains, and restraints; to dildos, butt plugs, and Crisco cans, holding their dumb silence; to anything or anyone who held the answer. But only his voice and the voice of Evil echoed in the cavernous room. In shock and, now in growing fear, he searched for the truth, grappled with his unraveling sanity, and grasped for the proper octave to restore order. Yet the fear and the rapid unfolding horror overwhelmed him.

Evil, my ass as its mouthpiece, moved my body at will. It curled me slowly, hideous, to heels-over-head, and spread my legs in a contortionist-inspired V, which caused my joints to pop in protest and my pelvis to push up and out. I had been drawn into a position resembling an incomplete "at" sign.

As my sphincter fully developed into a pushed out mouth and pouty lips, sharp teeth in the upper reaches of my hole pushed through my delicate rectal walls. Rows of deformed incisors, bicuspids, and molars spiraled into my narrowing bowel. The monstrous canines formed just inside the outer sphincter and protruded from my ass.

Evil hissed demands, as bloody pieces of my rectum flew from its frothing maw: Now come to me, little man.

Sir stood in shock: He saw the metamorphosis, heard the spat of Evil's demands, but seemed frozen in fear.

Yes, you will do nicely. However, I do prefer my meat hairless, my bloody, gaping asshole said and cackled huskily. My asshole grew wider and the teeth grew longer, more numerous. Sir stood, eyes wide with fright, but he somehow managed to loose himself from the mesmerizing horror to take a few steps back.

"Get away, get away, get . . . the . . .fuck . . . away!" He screamed in a fear-inspired shrill. The ultra-masculine, god-like minister of pain had vanished, now replaced by the trembling little man Evil had spoke of.

Suddenly he ran for the door. He never made it—None ever did.

From my asshole, Evil flicked its long bloody tentacle, covered with large quivering suction cups, and caught Sir's leg. In vain he stretched for the door, found his cat-o-nine tails a useless weapon, and desperately tried to pry away the cups of the constricting tentacle. But instantly, his hands stuck to the tongue, and he watched as smaller tentacles formed near his hands to wrap around his wrists.

He struggled, screamed, cursed, and begged for his life—they all begged. Some even pissed and shitted themselves—but none ever got away.

So, from my perch I watched Evil's feeding frenzy and hummed my favorite song. Ignoring the blood choked cries of Sir, I watched Evil bite through bone and sinew—It always fascinated me how the bodies slowly disappeared up my asshole: Chump! Chump! Chump! And they were gone. Then after Evil's noisy savagery—the cracking of bone, the slurping of fat, and gurgling of openings not meant for blood's passage—I closed my eyes to see the words of my favorite song float by while I swung a leg from my perch:

You wear guilt/
Like shackles on your feet/
Like a halo in reverse . . .
Men and worlds, they fall apart/
When the walls come tumbling in . . .

Like the others, there will be no trace of Sir. Evil always ate every morsel and licked away the juice. When Evil's done, my body resumes its shape, and I slip out into the foggy night . . .

I wake with a start to find my bed linen is soggy. I have to stop drinking so much. Damn, I hope I didn't piss the bed. But when I turned on the light . . .

 

©2003 Siktici - Contributor's Bio
Poem an excerpt from "Halo" by Martin Lee Gore of Depeche Mode.