The big muscular college kid hadn’t been to an SAA meeting in almost a week. And Frank hadn’t seen SuperPredator online lately either. His ass still hadn’t healed from his last encounter with the gorgeous cannibal.
Still, all he could think about was another private moment with the clean-cut muscle-bound man with the hard blue eyes that scurried over every inch of you as he spoke as if sizing you for the kill, eyes that seemed to rip their way inside and invade every inch of you. He wanted him again, but he feared what another session with the SuperPredator might do to him.
He’d had a hard time explaining his wounds at the emergency ward. Luckily he was such a regular that they had barely listened to a word he said. They just called for a psychiatrist to visit with him while they bandaged up his mutilated ass. Once he’d managed to convince the bored psychiatrist that he wasn’t suicidal or delusional, he’d been released with a prescription for painkillers and a recommendation to seek professional help. Frank had smiled warmly and left. He’d masturbated to the memory of the pain as he drove himself home, nearly crossing the yellow line into oncoming traffic when he recalled Joe’s reaction as he slurped down the sliver of flesh sawed from Frank’s buttocks.
It had shocked him to see the man ejaculate by merely tasting a small morsel of his flesh. He’d never felt so loved as he had seeing the pleasure his meat had brought to the big carnivore.
The hunger that sprang into the man’s eyes after the orgasm subsided had been terrifying but extremely erotic. He wanted to give more of himself to Joe, to see the predator’s eyes roll up in his head and his body shudder as the ecstasy of blood and meat erupted from him. It had been obvious that the man had wanted more of Frank … much more, perhaps more than Frank could survive. Still, Frank was willing to risk it. He hadn’t been able to think of anything else since he’d run in terror from Joe’s rundown apartment building.
Reading the cannibal fantasies on the Long Pig site had almost convinced him it was worth losing his life for the experience of being consumed by such a powerful predator, to bind his flesh forever with that beautiful man. Finally, Frank couldn’t resist any longer and decided to go visit his SuperPredator again.
He’d had more than a few whiskey sours when he walked brazenly up to the front door of the rundown building and rang the bell to the apartment where Joe was supposed to live. He couldn’t imagine that anyone really lived in such a place though, especially not the beautiful well groomed Clark Kent look-alike. But this was where he’d met him for their little rendezvous just a few nights before. He rang the doorbell a few more times without an answer. Then he pushed on the front door and it swung open easily, revealing the same dusty old lobby where he and Joe had exchanged flesh and blood for sweat and semen. It was empty and looked like it had been that way since before Frank was born.
‘Hello?’ Frank called out softly and heard only his voice echoing through the dank stagnant air. The place smelled like a damp moldy basement.
Frank crept cautiously inside and closed the door behind him. The oppressive darkness that swooped in on him, choking all light from the room, panicked him. Without the glare of the streetlights outside it was total blackness. A chill of dread scurried over Frank’s flesh, raising goose bumps, as the old building seemed to swallow him in one great gulp. Frank quickly swung the front door open again to let a little light in. Even with the faint light creeping in from the street, Frank had a difficult time navigating his way to the stairs. There was no way he was going to risk climbing into the building’s rickety old elevator and getting stuck inside. From the way this place looked it would be decades before anyone found him.
He remembered what apartment Joe had told him to ring and began making his way up the stairs toward it. The alcohol coursing through his bloodstream had made him a little braver than normal, along with the fact that he was as much addicted to the adrenaline rush of fear and pain as he was to that of orgasm. Still, he jumped at every sound as he crept his way up the darkened stairway toward the apartment on the fifth floor.
‘Joe! Joe, are you up there?’ He was calling out mostly for the reassurance of hearing his own voice echo back at him, the one familiar sound in this tomb of squeaking stairs and rats. When he reached the fifth floor he stuck his head out and was assaulted by the odor of urine, fecal matter, and decay. Again he wondered if anyone but a few stray cats, some rats, and perhaps a dog or two, lived in this place. He could see some of the hippies who wandered up and down Haight Street begging for change and reeking of marijuana and patchouli oil living in a place like this, but Joe would have been horribly out of place. Perhaps this was just the place where he took his lovers (To murder and eat? What was that sickening smell?) to fuck.
Frank nearly ran down the hall to room 510. He skidded to a stop just outside the room in which his dream lover was supposed to reside, surprised to find the door open.
‘Joe? Are you in there?’
There was no response except for a loud thump from somewhere deeper inside the dingy sparsely furnished apartment.
Frank crept in and surveyed the apartment. It looked like a jail cell. There was only one lamp, a small eighteen inch television and VCR atop a milk crate, two folding chairs, a table, and the paintings.
The walls were lined with acrylic paintings of figures bathed in red. Frank moved closer to them and realized that the figures in the paintings were not just bathed in red. They were bleeding. Slowly his eyes began to make sense of the chaos on the canvases. The pink and tans represented human flesh. Meat opened up so that the muscle and sinews showed through the skin. The white was bone. And the red was obviously blood. The paintings looked like people turned inside out. And there were pieces missing from them. Some were missing legs or arms. Some were obviously women without breasts. Some had no heads. Some had heads with no faces. Many were of men or women with their sex organs removed. In the place of each anatomical omission was a ragged hole, bleeding down the canvas.
Frank heard the loud bump again. It was coming from the bedroom.
‘Joe? Are you okay in there? It’s me. Frank.’
Frank pushed open the door, saw the woman who was now handcuffed by her wrists and ankles with duct tape wrapped around her mouth. He looked down at her breasts and could see the Band-Aids over her nipples. Whatever had happened, the panic in the woman’s eyes told him that it had not been consensual.
There was a slight trickle of blood from a small cut on her forehead, presumably from where she had fallen off the bed.
Her ankle cuffs were still attached to a chain in the ceiling that would have made it impossible for her to move more than a few feet from the bed. She was flopping around, trying to get to her feet, and when she noticed the diminutive little man standing there her eyes began pleading with him for help. She held her wrists out and shook them at him, imploring him to remove the handcuffs, but he had no key and was beginning to fear for his own safety. The best thing for him to do, he reasoned, would be to get the hell out of there and call the cops. He started to back out of the room and the woman’s pleas became more insistent. She shook her hands violently at him and pounded her feet on the floor. Her eyes began to tear up with frustration as Frank scuttled backward out of the bedroom. The more panicked she became the greater Frank’s resolve grew that he was definitely in the wrong place and in danger of getting far worse than he had bargained for if he didn’t leave now.
Frank’s eyes darted from the woman to a painting that sat on the floor outside the bedroom. This one was larger than the rest and it was of a voluptuous woman chained up on a bed like this one. Only the woman in the picture had no breasts at all and her chest was opened up like a rose in bloom.
This was the only painting where the face was rendered clearly. It was almost ultrarealistic, like a snapshot. And it was obviously the woman on the bed. The same wounded eyes. The same dimpled cheeks. Only the woman in the painting was screaming in some twisted marriage of pain, terror, and ecstasy. It was a powerful image. Frank wondered if the woman had seen it. It was what her future would be if Frank didn’t come back with help. The smell of death and decay was now omnipresent and seemed to rise like a warning siren, singeing the hair on his nostrils and telling him to get out.
‘I’ll get help. I’ll be back. I promise,’ Frank said, speaking both to the woman on the bed and the one in the painting. The present and the probable future.
His eyes drifted away from hers, trying to avoid her silent pleas, and as they swept the rest of the apartment he suddenly recognized himself in one of the paintings. This one was even worse than the rest. It was painted in mostly whites and reds. Bones and blood. Almost all the flesh had been completely removed. Only the face remained, the eyes staring heavenward as if in rapture, the mouth slack as if in the aftermath of orgasm. Frank’s legs trembled and threatened to buckle.
