A God of Hungry Walls

by Garrett Cook

  “Good,” he says, with a mock sigh of defeat, a triumph disguised as submission. Nothing worse than a very sore winner. Of course, knowing Doctorpuppet, he’s going to pass that soreness on. I will make sure of it. There is a scalpel in his hand after all. As his hardon starts to spring up, she wraps her feet around it and pumps it some.

  “Do you want more?” she asks, as if it is a question. She pulls her shirt over her head, two perfect circles sharpened by his words make their appearance, reinforce the definition of “more” and how much of it there is. She has a sense of what was in this man, so there is no way he wouldn’t want more.

  “Yes,” he breathes, once more in mock defeat. He hangs his head in what is supposed to look like shame. He’s getting worse at this part. This is not a man who can even think of, could even imagine what shame looks like now.

  She gets off her couch, gets on her knees and crawls.

  “Do you have something for me, daddy?” she asks.

  “Yes,” he says, unzipping his pants. Red and throbbing, foreskin veiny, Clarence presents himself to Kaz, who crawls too fast in her anticipation, spoils the game but fixes it when her lips venture up the organ, then back down. She lets his balls melt into her mouth and begins to suck hard on them. I let him have this completely, remind him why he must be loyal. I let him feel the whole sum of the tenderness and deftness of her sucking him with utter disregard and ignorance of the fact that he is a dead man.

  Eyes on his pleading for acceptance from him and everyone else she’s done this to and for all at once, her head bobs up and down thirstily accepting and adoring the object of affection and of hunger. He strokes her forehead as she does, keeps eye contact and says just what she wants to hear, what many broken women need to hear.

  “Good girl,” he says.

  Kaz straightens up with pride, fights back tears. He’s speaking to her like a dog or a child but it feels so gentle and sincere. She picks up her pace, needs him happy, needs every drop. So empty all the time and nothing fills her. So lonely all the time and nobody’s company. Nobody’s ever company. But she has this, this thing in her mouth to be good to, this man at the end of this thing to be good to and to be company, to be loving and appreciate and want her to get better. It’s a beautiful thing. She picks up her pace, going almost from kind to desperate. Of course there is desperation and seldom kindness. There is so much desperation in these walls, these walls where I am god.

  She slowly withdraws him at the first taste of tiny signs of seed. She meets his gaze intensely.

  “Should I finish you or do you want something else?”

  “I’m not sure this is right, Kaz,” says Doctorpuppet, certain this is right, at least for him, that this is wrong, at least for her, that this will be paid for in suffering and shame and maybe eventually blood or almost certainly blood.

  “Should we stop?”

  “I can’t now. We can’t now. We have to but we can’t. Do you promise you’ll forgive me for this? I’m older than you and I should know better. Promise me, promise me, this won’t change how we relate.”

  She pulls down her shorts and her thong.

  “I promise.”

  He gently lays her down on the couch she just crawled off of. The First Girl, the skullfaced composted thing, wants to come out and warn her. I flick the First Girl away like a fly about to land on a bowl of soup. She is faint and distant and weak and broken, tortured beyond the point of ego mostly no good to me but to give someone an occasional spook. Nobody needs to be spooked right now.

  He begins by kissing her chest. One long, lingering kiss on the heart. As if to say “this thing matters to me, I will treat it right.” His kiss, like any dead man’s kiss, is nothing but a lie. She moans out thanks, overplaying it to make him feel like a prodigy at loving. And were he not the keen observer that he is, he would be fooled, no doubt many have been fooled.

  He grabs the little chain hanging from her rosy pink nipple which almost fades into the whiteness of her flesh. He plays with it a little, showing a great deal of self restraint. He wants to yank and shove and rend and tear. He wants to see if he could pull hard enough and the nipple would come off. He died before things like this became popular so never got a chance to play with them so rough. Instead, he kisses her mouth, a kiss that pretends to be somebody else. He is pretending to be a doctor instead of a Doctorpuppet. She sighs into his mouth feeling understood and appreciated and wanted. She is certainly wanted. She is certainly understood. The last one is not something Doctorpuppet ever really did.

  He inserts himself. Not gently. No warning. He inserts himself the way he always has, the way he treats people’s minds. He invades her and attacks her. But she asked for it and she doesn’t seem to mind. It hurts but all she can think is “thank you,” all she can feel is that something is in the empty and the empty might go away and there might be no more empty so there might be something else that’s not quite empty.

  He hammers into her. He ignores the limits of his body, ignores fatigue that he would have later since the body is just on loan, the body will be retracted and he will have all eternity to rest. He pulls his mouth away from hers so that she can scream. And she does. She does scream. I pull it into the walls, I take it in for me when she screams. Someone could be standing at the door and they’d hear nothing.

  “Daddy, thank you, daddy…”

  He places a hand around her throat. He stops and lets a great gob of saliva drop into her mouth. She coughs some, chokes some as he punishes her for some transgression his older sister made when he was little. He punishes her from the time she put him in a dress or how she’d get naked in front of him and tease him with her body, how she made him masturbate to her when he was old enough to. He punishes her for all those secret shames and all the teasing whores and the bodies before Maddy that she didn’t know about and still doesn’t. And the one in the woods who came back, the First Girl. He punishes her for being what she is.

  “Thank you, thank you daddy,” she struggles out, trying her hardest to keep the beat with a man that just wants to hurt her and does it so very well. He lets loose, not caring that tears are flowing down her cheek and she doesn’t want the repercussions of it and doesn’t want to walk around full of cum. She doesn’t say this and doesn’t object because she deserves this and brought it upon herself by being such a worthless dirty whore and for all the shameful secret thoughts she has. She invited him in and invited me in through him. She believed him and developed her faith in these walls.

  I take pleasure in knowing the man I can’t read has walked into a house of acolytes. This is my temple and Doctorpuppet fills her with apotheosis and faith. So very much faith. He squeezes her throat harder, leans in to bite, does so just hard enough not to make a mark. She can feel the choke and the tooth and the hateful thrust and this is the world to her.

  “Do you want to stop?” he says suddenly, adopting the demeanor of a proper doctor, “because if you need to stop, we can. I want you to be comfortable. I want you to be able to trust me.”

  He pulls out of her and sits, hangs his head down and puts it in his hands.

  “This was a mistake, Kaz. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve hurt you. I never meant for it to go this far. I’m your doctor. You should trust me.”

  She sits up and rubs his back. She kisses the back of his neck.

  “No, you’ve been good to me, daddy. I need this.”

  Doctorpuppet shakes his head. He prepares to get his pants back on. Kaz clings to him, wraps her arms around his waist and hangs on tight. She kisses his face and shares her tears with him. Doctorpuppet feels like he might be doing something wrong. Doctorpuppet knows what he’s doing. Doctorpuppet doesn’t want to hurt her like this. Doctorpuppet wants to hurt her so much worse.

  “I can’t…I can’t.”

  He can. He must. He will. He takes her, face suddenly rotting away, revealing the time he has spent in the ground, face suddenly yellowed skeleton with nothing behind hi
s sockets. He grabs her again by the throat, contorts his gumless skeleton mouth into a smile. She stares into the empty holes but somehow is unafraid, somehow knows that it’s still him and doesn’t care what has become of him, the rot, the gone of him.

  “You want me now?”

  The scalpel seems to fly into his hand. She chokes and sobs.

  “I asked you if you want me now. Do you want me now?”

  She strokes his shoulder affectionately. Keeps his gone gaze. Brave girl. Such a brave, demented, stupid girl. She thinks of what he’s done for her, thinks of the emptiness and what if he were gone and what if she could never talk to or touch or trust him again and what if it was just her and a world of men who weren’t him who wanted only to do her harm instead of fix her. She won’t let him be gone. They’re always gone. She won’t let him be gone.

  “Yes, yes I do.”

  He falls upon her, breathing rot on her face, the stink of time, the reek of loss. She has been brave. I give him back his face and through him, she gets back that very face. The face of this man, of the father she has grown to love and need over the year she’s spent here. She would have given herself to him, face or none, or even flesh or none, and she has proven her loyalty.

  They move and moan and coil and adore. They roll and rumble and touch each other, absorbed in this moment. The conscience he pretended to have has long come and gone. There are the thoughts cascading through him. Thoughts of knives and hammers and stranglings and keeping her in the cage as he once had Antonia. He wishes he could make them perform on each other and then make them perform on Maddy. He wishes he could once more feel what it is to hold the blade in his hand and make it do its beautiful work.

  “What if you can?” I whisper.

  “I can’t do this to her,” he says back in his head, “this is sick. I need to I need to….”

  He can’t hear his thoughts over the sound of his cock squishing around inside her. He can’t hear his thoughts over the need to make use of the object in his hand and make his mark. He needs to make his mark. He needs her so bad in ways that she can’t give of her own volition. So I drag him out of her. He sits up straight and stares back at the First Girl, begging him to let her go, telling him she won’t tell anybody if he just lets her go, offering herself again if he just lets her go, saying let me go, it will be fine if you just let me go so let me go please please please…

  Kaz sits up and once again reaches out for him.

  “I told you that it was alright. I told you I didn’t care what you were like. I know something’s wrong with you but I promise I don’t care what you’re like as long as you don’t leave me here alone. I need you.”

  He begs me to let him leave now but he doesn’t want to. I know what he actually wants and he’s going to.

  “Lie down,” he says.

  “Anything,” she sighs back, “but please just don’t go. I love you. I need you.”

  Scalpel in hand, he reaches in deep as he can. Scalpel in hand, he drags it along the walls, marking with his print. She screams, she sighs. She huffs and puffs. She bleeds. He pulls it out again, hand covered in blood, scalpel covered in blood, Kaz’s insides scraped. Her eyes are wide and tearful. She doesn’t understand why he’s done this and why it had to happen.

  “Thank you,” she says, “thank you for loving me.”

  He strokes her hair, pushes it away from her face and kisses her cheek. He smiles and she smiles back at him, even as some blood pools up on the couch. She doesn’t scream. Brave girl. Brave brave girl. She puts her arms around him and drags him close and brings him down. She whispers up into his ears, fugued, says something surprising.

  “Cum in me,” she says, “fill me.”

  Her face and body scrunch up from the pain she’s in but she accepts him and he complies, no longer begging me, no longer wanting me to let him end her or to free him from this moment. They fuck. And they fuck again. And they roll over and once more fingernails and teeth and passion and hate and wrath, they fuck again. And from his long dead balls full of borrowed life, a gift from the one who is god in these walls, he explodes, filling her with something impossible. Impossible but for the god in these walls. And merciful me, we let her forget the whole thing.

  I come to Micah in dreams, in a grove untouched by man, skies obscured by trees as old as time. I am manlike, but as I am better than man, my body is greater. My skin is tan and smooth, my muscles ripple. My head is horned and crowned in leaves, my legs, furry, hooved. My manhood is gigantic, over a foot long, crimson, its head gigantic, the size of a small fist. I stand before him, Pan exaltant. God is talking, he will listen. He bows before me, placing a kiss on the head of my giant cock. He turns around, presenting, offering himself. Micah has become mine.

  I get behind him and comply with his will. I force my way into him, bringing the strength of the trees, the strength of the wild into each thrust. I fill him with base nature and brute strength. Blood oozes out but he moans instead of screaming. He is caught up in my musk and in my might. I am feeling something much akin to ecstasy. Joy is not common for me but as I use his inner spaces, we become one, man and Pan.

  Paying the Piper

  Bird and rabbit, bear and stag look on.

  Deep in the green place that mirrors the Emerald Necklace, he becomes mine completely. Load after load of ectoplasm explodes into his dreamself, into his soul. As he trembles in his sleep, he is cumming and cumming and cumming. Cytherea beside him wakes up, and with a smile takes his dribbling prick in hand and feels his release, the release he’s gaining from me.

  The ritual rape is now threesome. I, in the world of green, musky, ageless things, her in the bed beside him sharing the pleasure. I do not quite have her yet but I certainly will. I am Pan, the force of his id. I am the voice in the trees that he’s been hearing. He spasms and explodes but he stays hard. Godhood in his ass is a powerful force. He is moaning in his sleep, she is drinking sacred nectar, cleaning ‘til she decides to bring her roundness down, to take him inside and ride him. She knows by his twitching he is experiencing something magical and she must have it. They think that they believe that love must be free but the both of them are deeply jealous.

  She wonders as she lowers herself, envelops his cock, if the dream lover was her. As she bounces, taking it in, she longs to outperform me. His body wants to drag him from the forest to get him back with the cow he’s chosen to pair with, fool that he is. His body wants to watch her giant udder bounce up and down as she works him. It wants to take him away from this spiritual communion.

  But I am in the primeval spaces where the call of gods and satyrs is loud as can be. Though the cowcunt tries to claim him, he is mostly mine, mine for slippery goatcock, mine to own and mine to use as I desire. And for some reason that I don’t understand, I want to know him and take his insides as mine even as I compete with the cow that he professes to love. I understand him inwards now so he’ll be more mine than the other’s and soon as much mine as he can be. He revels in my pounding, heart and prostate tickled by my affections.

  Then I let him halfway into consciousness because I want to see what he’ll do. He doesn’t disappoint. He gets right to pushing the cow off of him. He gets on top of her, grabs one of her long, hard nipples in each hand as he reenters her with a thrust that is almost combative. She screams and smiles gigantic.

  “Fuck me,” she moans, “fuck me, you fucking beast.” She has no idea how right she is and what she is asking for. His thrusts exit quickly, so he might get back in, hips empowered by the satyr strength. He thrusts hard, the thrusts rapid, he thrusts berserk, cock stampeding into cunt. He is half in, half out the forest and as he fucks her, I am fucking him, unloading over and over again. He is, after all, mine and each spasm reconfirms it, earning it and taking it once more. Smiling and begging for it. The whore is smiling and begging for it. She ignores the pain though the lining of her cunt must be tearing under his strength. He is so asleep and so awake at once.

  “Harder!”
she screams, “Harder! Fuck me, you beast!”

  It is possible she feels that what’s in me is in him, me fucking him as I fuck her. Her cunt is strangely tight. It feels good. She is not an awful lay. I can almost see what he sees in her. There is value in her cunt, strength her mind and will are lacking. Her shouldbe gaping pussy is tightening around him, just as his asshole is tightening around the cock of dreams, the cock of Pan triumphant. How dare you make me greedy you filthy vermin, how dare you shits show me how much there is to have and to take.

  Maddy appears to me, making suggestions. I do not expect to hear from Maddy and surprise is one of the few sensations I am not acclimated to. Doctorpuppet comes out to watch but his wife is generally bitter, hard and disdainful. Doctorpuppet’s soul is slick with shit but Maddy is genuinely made of nothing good. I always appreciated how she was made of nothing good. It is, in this case, quite inspiring. She is pointing to the bottle of wine on the nightstand and it is clear to me immediately what she’s suggesting. Maddy does not have good memories of bottles of wine, that’s for certain. I will not waste her suggestion. It is inspired.

  So Micah picks up the wine bottle.

  “Are you going to pour me a drink?” Cytherea asks. He does not answer. Micah is not in a position to speak, even if his life depended on it. His ass is clenched tight, his body filled with the sacred fluids and waves of me. So, no, he most certainly has no intention of pouring her a drink. Instead, he withdraws from her and with a wicked jerk, he replaces his cock with the corked wine bottle, its width and length more than stretching her to her rather impressive limits. She moans.

  “Be careful,” she says, “this could hurt.”

  “This could hurt” is hardly among the phrases he could hear or care about at this time. He thrusts without thought, his surrogate glass cock smooth and thick, long and hard. His eyes are distant and wide and gone as gone can be. Maddy looks on, rotund, naked and rotten inside and out. She sticks a pair of thick fingers into her illused tunnel of a vagina, working the shards of her demise around as she stirs the audibly thick, bloodied juice.