Not expicit. This is loosely autobiographical. Names changed, revealing details adjusted, but all true. A story of a deep darkness devouring me from within.
If you’re looking to get off, this isn’t your stop, traveller.
The dead pigeon lay stiff in the gutter, wings askew. David stepped over it without breaking stride, ignoring the feeling of being a little dead inside as well that continually haunted him.
Inside the buzzing phone store, fluorescent lights reflected off glossy screens. Christy tugged his arm, pointing at a sleek new Galaxy. “Look at that camera, David! Think of the zoom!” Her voice bounced off the tile floor. He nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, honey. Big improvement.”
His gaze drifted past the display stands. She stood near the repair counter—tall, unnaturally pale, draped in ripped fishnets and a leather miniskirt cutting low across sharp hipbones. Ebony hair framed intense, dark-smudged eyes.
What froze him were the twin sets of angry red scratches raked down her thighs, stark against marble-white skin. Below the skirt’s ragged hem, a bold black dog paw tattoo stood out on her left hipbone, the ink slightly raised. His pulse hammered against his ribs. *No accident*, he thought, heat crawling up his neck. *That’s deliberate. Claimed.*
She turned. Her dark brown eyes locked onto his amber ones. A flicker of understanding passed between them. Slowly, deliberately, her fingertip drew a circle over the paw print then down to the claw marks, black laquered nails tracing the fresh wounds from a recent mating. David’s breath caught.
She lifted her other hand, slender fingers brushing the heavy silver padlock hanging from a thick chain around her throat. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips as she gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. He mirrored it, dumbstruck. Taken. Owned. A flush of envy spread through him for whoever was so lucky to have collared this lovely creature.
Christy’s voice sliced through the silence. “Sushi after this?” David tore his eyes away, turning back to his wife’s eager face. “Sushi sounds perfect,” he murmured. The scent of leather and ozone lingered where the woman had stood. His knuckles whitened around the phone box in his hand, nails biting into the cardboard. The scratches on those thighs burned behind his eyelids.
—
The assistant manager wiped sweat from her brow as she slid the activation paperwork across the counter. Christy chattered about seaweed salad. David stared blankly at the receipt, the phantom image of claws on pale flesh tightening his jaw.
In the parking lot, he pretended to adjust his wife’s seatbelt. His gaze swept the asphalt where the goth woman’s motorcycle still leaned against a lamppost—a matte black rocket with no license plate. Twin droplets of oil stained the concrete beneath its engine like fresh blood. The scent of gasoline mingled with the memory of her leather and cheap perfume clinging to his collar.
At the sushi bar, Christy squeezed wasabi onto her plate. David watched pink salmon glide across rice, imagining teeth breaking skin on that marble thigh. He saw the padlock chain digging into slender neck tendons during breathless surrender. His fork trembled against ceramic. Every crunch of tempura echoed like the snap of a collar clasp.
The chopsticks slipped from his fingers when Christy mentioned redecorating the guest room. He pictured fishnet ripped wider under gripping paws, that dog paw tattoo flushed crimson against violently rocking hips, air filled with ecstasy filled cries. His knee jerked under the table, rattling teacups. Across the street, neon flickered red against a pawn shop window—the exact shade of those parallel scratches burned onto his retinas like brands.
Home smelled of lemon polish and contentment. Christy curled against him on the couch, humming along to a talent show contestant’s shaky ballad. David stared blankly at the screen, tasting iron and ozone instead of popcorn. Behind closed eyelids, he felt the cold bite of a padlock chain pressing his palm into yielding flesh, heard choked gasps muffled against leather straps.
His thumb brushed Christy’s wedding ring, smooth and flawless, while somewhere, powerful claws scored pale thighs in a hot, desperate rhythm… in someone else’s life.
He kissed Christy’s temple as she slept later, moonlight silvering her peaceful face. Perfect. Safe. Yet his gut clenched with a gnawing emptiness sharper than hunger. That silver lock… it wasn’t just metal. It was surrender. It was ownership screamed into bruised skin, pain transformed into worship. His wife’s gentle love felt suddenly like velvet-lined shackles. Outside this warm, gilded cage? Ruin. Chaos. Filth that clawed at his bones. And God, how he craved that terrifying aliveness—the raw, ugly truth the goth woman’s ruined thighs promised.
Showering before dawn, scalding water pounded his shoulders as he imagined the padlock’s key scraping in its tumbler. Christy’s towel hung neatly beside his. His knuckles whitened on the tile, steam fogging the glass. Trapped? Yes. But worse—terrified he might someday break this beautiful cage open himself, chasing the beautiful decay outside. The water cooled. He remained frozen.
—
The redhead’s name was Stella—Christy’s old project manager from her marketing days. Stella’s laugh echoed in his memory: low, smoky, confident. He remembered her leaning against Christy’s cubicle wall, describing the silicone monstrosity she’d ordered online that weekend, her green eyes sparkling with wicked delight. “Size matters, honey,” she’d drawled, ignoring Christy’s polite discomfort, her gaze sliding to David’s bewildered face. “And stretch marks? They’re just proof you lived.”
Her full lips curled into a knowing smile aimed solely at him. Christy had swiftly changed the subject to quarterly reports. Stella’s perfume lingered—vanilla wrapped around something deeply musky, like damp earth after heavy rain.
Christy knelt before him later that evening in their plush bedroom, mouth hot and eager. Her worshipful hands smoothed his thighs, her throat humming against his skin. Yet his mind superimposed Stella’s soft curves and messy red hair against silk pillows, Stella’s imagined gasps mingling with Christy’s adoring moans.
He saw Stella guiding his fist into her gaping slackness, wide eyes rolling back in ecstasy, whispering filthy praise through swollen lips. The contrast was brutal: Christy’s meticulous passion versus Stella’s chaotic hunger. His groan echoed off the ceiling. Christy took it as encouragement, pressing closer. He tasted bile at his betrayal—even imaginary.
Afterward, lying spent beside his sleeping wife, David traced the curve of Christy’s hip through the thin silk of her nightgown. Her breath was soft, rhythmic—a lullaby to domestic bliss. He’d just been worshipped, drained, adored with feverish devotion. Any man would trade kingdoms for this: a woman who craved his flesh like scripture, who dropped to her knees with joyful abandon, whose mouth knew every contour of him as sacred ground.
Yet his nerves still screamed with a hollow static, an itch beneath the skin no amount of gentle adoration could scratch. The perfection felt suffocating, like polished glass separating him from the dirty, vital pulse he needed to feel alive. Stella’s laughter echoed again—that low, smoky sound that promised wreckage and revelation. Where Christy offered polished devotion, Stella’s imagined hunger felt like plunging into an untamed river: dangerous, muddy, exhilaratingly real.
David rolled silently out of bed, padding to his home office. Moonlight bled through the blinds, striping his keyboard silver. He didn’t open his manuscript. Instead, he stared blankly at the glowing LinkedIn icon on his browser.
Stella’s profile photo flashed in his mind—that cascade of flame-red hair framing sly green eyes, those full lips curved in a smirk that bypassed polite boundaries entirely. He remembered her leaning into Christy’s cubicle, silk blouse straining over soft curves, detailing how she’d spent Saturday night “taking a fist like a champion.” The raw hunger in her voice had vibrated against his bones while Christy flushed and murmured about deadlines.
Stella hadn’t just spoken filth; she’d ritualized it—a priestess of the profane. And now? She worked downtown, managing that avant-garde sex shop Christy pretended didn’t exist. Close enough to taste temptation, far enough to fracture everything.
His fingers hovered over the keys. A sick thrill coiled in his gut—part self-loathing, part desperate need. He could write about her: conjure Stella on the page, bent over a velvet chaise, silk ripped open to reveal thick, creamy thighs marked by the deep purple blooms of old bruises. He’d describe the wet, obscene gape between her legs after some monstrous toy, the trembling slackness inviting ruin. How her throaty moans would sound, ragged and triumphant, as she begged for the stretch of knuckles splitting her wide.
The fantasy ignited like kerosene—vivid, visceral, shamefully specific. But writing felt hollow tonight. It wasn’t the ghost of Stella he wanted; it was the sweat-slicked reality, the musk of her surrender, the bite of her teeth on his shoulder while she forced his fist deeper. Christy’s gentle snores drifted down the hall—a reproachful counterpoint to the violent hunger roaring in his skull.
He slammed the laptop shut. The screen’s glow died instantly, plunging the room into thick, guilty darkness. Fragments of Stella’s imagined laughter clung like cobwebs—brash, unapologetic, dripping with promises Christy’s golden love could never touch. Outside this safe, scented cage lay ruin. Glory. Filth that sang to the darkest parts of him.
The office chair creaked as he leaned back, fists clenched against the ache blooming behind his ribs. He wasn’t trapped by his wife’s devotion; he was imprisoned by his own cowardice. Terrified he’d shatter their beautiful, brittle world chasing the beautiful decay just beyond the glass. Terrified more that he wouldn’t. That he’d stay here forever, starving amidst paradise.
Christy padded into the room, a sleepy silhouette haloed by the hallway light. “Can’t sleep?” Her voice, soft with concern, was a blade twisting in his gut. She wore his old college t-shirt, faded and baggy, reaching mid-thigh. Short, feisty, gloriously curvy—her plump hips swayed slightly as she approached.
She wasn’t conventionally beautiful; her nose was a touch too wide, her chin stubbornly rounded. Pretty. Warm. Familiar. And her heart… Christ, her heart was a cathedral built on ruins. She knew his jagged edges because hers mirrored them—the shared childhood scars of abandonment and silence that made finding each other feel like a divine pardon. She fit him like breath fits lungs. Perfect. Necessary. His salvation.
Yet staring at her drowsy, trusting face, the hollowness inside him yawned wider. She was a whirlwind in bed—inventive, voracious, delightfully demanding. But she wasn’t *filthy*. She didn’t crave the degradation that set his nerves ablaze, the surrender etched in bruises and choked pleas he read about in hidden corners of the web.
A tremor ran through him as she nestled onto his lap, her warmth seeping through his thin pajama pants. Her fingers traced the tense line of his jaw. “What’s wrong, baby?” The pure devotion in her amber-flecked eyes was unbearable. He buried his face in the sweet-smelling crook of her neck—vanilla soap, sleep, *her*. His anchor. His cage.
His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her waist, feeling the comforting solidity beneath the worn cotton. He adored her. Utterly. Fiercely. The tempest of her emotions, her fierce protectiveness, her unwavering loyalty… it was everything he’d ever prayed for. And yet. And yet. He didn’t *ache* for her purity. No.
He ached for the profane. For the taboo whispered in pixelated stories on obscure forums—tales of ownership screamed into broken skin, of bodies pushed to grotesque, glorious limits. He stole moments, hunched over his phone in locked bathrooms or late in this very office, reading graphic accounts of gaping holes, tear-streaked degradation, the symphony of slaps and sobs, stroking himself to frantic release while Christy slept innocently down the hall. The shame was a sour taste coating his tongue.
He pulled her closer, inhaling the scent of their shared life—lemon polish, laundry detergent, *her*. “Just work stress,” he murmured against her hair, the lie thick and heavy. His thumb brushed the curve of her hipbone beneath soft cotton. She sighed, nestling deeper, trusting him implicitly.
Yet his mind was already tearing away, clawing toward the phantom taste of salt sweat and humiliation, the imagined sting of a handprint blooming on flushed skin. He pictured the raw, unfiltered hunger in those internet stories—the frantic coupling in alleys, the messy degradation after church, the choked cries swallowed by darkness.
Christy’s love was a sanctuary, warm and safe. But sanctuary walls felt stifling when the soul screamed for a wilderness, no matter how terrifying or debased. Why did the filth feel like oxygen? Why did the purity he cherished also feel like suffocation?
His gaze drifted past her drowsy face to the laptop screen, still glowing faintly. The cursor blinked on a half-written sentence dripping with lurid implication: *”…her mother’s shocked gasp mingled with her own wet gasps as thick fingers…”* He saw Christy’s reflection ghosted over the words—her innocence a grotesque contrast.
A shudder ran through him, cold despite her warmth. He had everything. A fierce, beautiful wife who craved him in every way. A marriage enviable by many, with real love and happiness, even with the storms and pains of life. Yet the ache wasn’t physical—it was a bone-deep hollowness, a craving for a shadow-self to be unleashed.
He wrote not just to vent, but to *summon*. Each explicit scene was a desperate incantation, hoping the fictional depravity might bleed into reality. Hoping someone—a stranger online, a colleague, *anyone*—would recognize the secret beast chained within him and offer it the forbidden feast it starved for. He needed proof that this darkness wasn’t just his own sickness. That somewhere, the filth existed as tangible, shared truth.
Christy shifted, her sleepy murmur breaking his reverie. “Come to bed, love.” Her hand slid possessively over his chest. Loyalty radiated from her touch. He saw the future laid bare in that instant: decades of her vibrant, *safe* passion, her fierce devotion untouched by the stains he desired. The familiar wave of self-loathing crested—what monster longed to soil such unwavering love? Yet beneath it surged a sharper, darker current: resentment.
Resentment that her boundaries felt like chains. That her “enough” wasn’t *his* enough. The stories weren’t mere fantasies; they were blueprints for a life she refused to explore. He didn’t just crave the acts—he craved the obliteration of self in surrender to forbidden passion and animal desires, the annihilation of the “David” who was husband and *good man*. He craved becoming nothing but raw sensation and shame. Christy offered ecstasy wrapped in tenderness. He burned for ecstasy drowned in filth.
His fingers tightened almost convulsively on her hip. The screen’s pale light etched harsh lines across his face. He imagined hitting ‘post’ on his latest fragment: a graphic account of a daughter submitting to her father’s belt and spit. The thrill was immediate, electric—a sickening rush of power and degradation. *This* was his domain.
The keyboard became an altar where he sacrificed respectability. Every published word was a stolen shard of the secret life he yearned for—a life where the darkest chambers of his hunger weren’t locked away, but thrown open, displayed, *used*.
He wanted the bruises, the tears, the animal grunts vibrating through shared walls. He wanted the world to know the depraved creature beneath the handsome veneer. And as Christy pressed closer, whispering promises of tomorrow’s sunrise and shared coffee, he knew, with chilling certainty, that he would keep writing. Hoping. Waiting. For the damtraveller’s.
Tags: A Quietly Devouring Abyss