Monsters
NC-17. 11/17/2006.

When Zach was a child, there were monsters around every bend, and he ran from them. They lurked under the crevasse in the basement stairs, in the dark places of his bedroom, in the shadows of the hall. They tapped on his windows at night and tried to smother him in blankets. They were as real as God, or Santa, or any of the other images he eventually outgrew.

And he thought for a while that it was all just a phase, something he'd grow up to abandon and only remember with a kind of nostalgic joy.

Except that doesn't fit in with the fact that he's under the blankets in a pitch-black room, curtains drawn, dwelling on monsters with white hair and teeth that spark in the darkness, smooth hairless bodies and glowing blue eyes. Doesn't account for why he's fantasizing of his golden cousin and her pact with the Devil, of a ring and a lumpy couch and an unspoken promise. He doesn't have a single logical reason for why he's pumping his cock smooth and slow, one-fisting it, envisioning Jenny down in a basement, whispering dirty words to a creature formed of pure darkness.

There are things that make him shudder just to think about, things he's actually seen and things he's envisioned as clearly as if he had. He shudders with two fingers in his mouth to keep the noises inside, so Dear Old Dad doesn't hear, so he can pretend this isn't real. He shudders as his hips buck, as he pictures Jenny kneeling between the Shadow Man's open legs, hair a fan around her, as if it could hide the infernal covenant her mouth has made.

Jenny has been gone for two months--vanished into thin air, so the headlines read. He tells his counselor that he can't stop thinking about her, that it's driving him crazy.

He does not describe his thoughts, has never told anyone the blasphemous things he thinks about Jenny. Her full soft lips parted, swollen from the kiss he never gave her, peaked breasts in his hands as they tumble over an old couch in a dusty basement--

But, no, now he's confusing images.

Sometimes he's in full-blown fantasy mode and he thinks about how soft Julian's skin must be, how agile the long fingers, how forceful his kiss. Zach never really thought about other men in those terms, but it seems a logical step, from wondering how the light would best catch their bone structure, what expression would best capture their strength. It feels right that if he must go to this place of darkness, where his cousin parts her legs eagerly as he slips a finger into her, gasping her hunger at him, that the monster who stole her from them all should be present as well.

Mostly it's easier not to involve himself at all, to play out ten thousand different scenarios of what happened in that mock-basement after he ascended the stairs, of what the demon/alien/elf/god/monster did to her when they all walked away. Zach pictures an endless array of ravishments, of tender embraces, of satiations.

He lies in bed with the curtains closed so it doesn't matter whether it's night or day, and brings himself over the edge again and again, whenever it gets too much to do otherwise--

Because there is no one else left he'd want to do it for him.

end

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