Page 21 of Devil Inside

Another voice. Another man. This one is much like the last. A mask of bravado but buried underneath... we sense insipidness. Tedium. Textures of flesh that provide so little.

We are not inspired. A waste, really. “Sorry,” we say. “Didn’t see you.”

“You’re looking at me now.”

“We don’t like what we see.” Another touch. A gentle caress across his shoulder. The scales lean even further forward, tipping toward immorality, weighed down by our gift.

Then we push away.

“Bitch,” this man mutters as we drift off, unbothered by his bruised vanity. If only he knew what we were capable of. How much more we could do to him, even here, now.

No matter. We’ll be seeing him soon enough.

We are ready to exit into the night. Explore what this world has to offer.

But wait. There. What is that?

We sense him amongst the rest: a lost soul. It sings to us somehow. His loneliness is nothing new. His fear is fascinating, yes, but there’s more to him. Something we cannot put our finger on quite yet. All we know is that the textures of his flesh resonate.

See how he burns. So bright.

Who is he?

Look how he shines. Amongst all the others, he absolutely beams. This man is a beacon eclipsing all these other sweating bodies. A black hole in his heart, aching.

Now we areverycurious. We want to taste him.

Just a lick.

We crave the salt caked to his skin. That dried sweat, endless oceans of experience, now evaporated, encrusted across the vast expanse of his body, a tundra of time.

Will it taste like home?

We go to him. His eyes find us.

Good. Watch. See.

Look how fresh he is. If we want this ripe piece of fruit, we must pluck it.

“I’ll swallow your soul.”

“Come again?” His emptiness sings to us. The void within his chest.

What a blissful abyss.

He’s taller than others. A slender testament of flesh. His skin looks so tight, taut, strapped against his frame. Nothing but sinew. A steel cable all coiled up. A serpent set to strike. The muscles along his arms are like leather, laced in veins that tether themselves to the bone, a ship’s mast snaking up and disappearing beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt.

Charcoal sticks for legs. Stovepipe jeans. His threadbare shirt clings to his chest, damp with sweat. So tight. A second skin. There is a smattering of holes in the cotton along his torso, as if it’s been eaten through by maggots. What a feast he must make.

His black hair absorbs the light, trimmed to his temples, while up front, a few sprigs reach into the air. An oily sea urchin, loose spikes writhing about. High cheekbones, draped in completely pale flesh. Filament lips. His eyes probe, never settling. They seem to be a slate gray. This man is nothing but ash. Burnt offerings. What a succulent sacrifice.

We want his body. Not to possess, but to fuck. Feel everything two bodies can offer. The bristle of facial hair. The scrape of nails down our back. The burn of skin. All of it.

It just takes an invitation. Let our body do the talking.Stillgot it.Our conversation is clipped, what little there is. This venue hinders our ability to whisper. To reach in deep.

We need to go elsewhere. Take him away from all this. Somewhere private, where we can have him all for ourselves.

“Come with me...”