Consider, if you will, a man named Matt--32 years young, a mechanic in a nowhere town, his days a gray smear of grease and steel, his nights a hollow echo of cold beer and fleeting conquests. A life not lived, but endured, its edges dulled by routine, its center an empty cavern no woman's sigh could fill. Matt was a shell, undeserving of pity, for he'd never sought more than the hum of an engine or the clink of a bottle. But the universe, in its vast indifference, harbors watchers--entities older than stars, crueler than time. Among them, the Flesh Void, a cosmic artisan of meat and bone, molds the living with a poet's whim. It sees the hollow and hungers to fill it, to twist and torture until the undeserving are remade--sometimes broken, sometimes rewarded, always transformed. For Matt, the Void felt a spark of inspiration, a whisper of dark verse. It reached down with unseen hands, and where there was nothing, it carved something--a hollowing that would become his fullness, a lesson no one asked for, a tale to be whispered late at night. Step into the shadow of the Flesh Void, where Matt's story begins--not with a bang, but with an itch.
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Matt was a mechanic sculpted by grit--grease staining his knuckles, a cold beer his evening hymn, the '67 Chevy's rumble his heartbeat. He'd fucked women in his truck bed, their breathy pleas stoking his ego, his dominance a warm, steady pulse. Then the itch struck--a faint, insidious tickle at the base of his skull, where his buzzed hair grazed his nape. He scratched it over black coffee, over torque wrenches, but it burrowed, a hot splinter that pried his mind apart.
Fantasies slithered in. Bent over the workbench, not claiming but claimed--a man's hands, coarse as engine grit, pinning him, sinking into a spot he couldn't pin down. Sweat beaded on his brow, his cock stirred under denim, and he'd shove it down, heart thudding. Matt wasn't gay--he'd forged that truth in every barstool conquest, every woman's sigh. But the itch hummed when he lingered on it, a velvet heat curling in his gut. Nights alone, he'd grip himself, the air thick with his own musk, imagining it--face pressed to the mattress, thighs trembling, a fullness he couldn't name--and come with a ragged snarl, shame licking at the ecstasy like a shadow.
The swelling came next. A soft mound rose under the skin, hairless, warm, a tender coin of flesh. He'd probe it in the shower, water sluicing over his shoulders, and a jolt would spear him--pleasure, not pain, lush and sharp, blooming wet between his legs. The fantasies took shape: hands parting him, entering him there, at his skull's root, the air buzzing with his own quickened breath. He'd catch himself staring--Jake's broad shoulders at the bar, a slab of quiet strength; Chris's cocky grin at the shop, a flash of teeth--and feel his chest tighten, his old self unraveling. He hated the pull, the way it softened his edges. He ached for it, a secret fire under his ribs.
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It shattered with Jake. They'd danced around it before--Matt's bravado a shield, Jake's glint a spark--but one night, whiskey sour stinging his tongue, Matt baited him. "Ever fuck a guy?" Jake's grin was a slow, sharp edge. "Yeah. You volunteering?" They stumbled into Matt's apartment, a snarl of lust, Matt's first time with a man--raw, jagged, a live wire in his veins.
Clothes tore free, the air thick with their heat. Jake slammed Matt against the wall, kissing him--teeth scraping, spit sharp with liquor--and Matt groaned, cock throbbing, the world tilting under his feet. The taste of Jake was salt and smoke, a rough invasion that made his pulse race, his control fraying like worn thread. They hit the bed, Jake flipping him, slicking himself with a spit-slick palm. "Want it?" he rasped, voice gravel, and Matt nodded, breathless, "Fuck me." Jake drove in, deep and brutal, ass burning into a slick, shuddering bliss. Matt clawed the sheets, hips bucking, drowning in it--the wet slap of skin, the stretch that hollowed him out, the air heavy with his own gasps.
Jake's hands roamed--one bruising Matt's hip, the other climbing his spine. Fingers dug into the mound, and it split--a slick, ripping pop, a slit yawning under Jake's grip, hot and alive. Jake recoiled, "What the fuck--" and Matt froze, dread a cold spike, but his body sang. Air kissed the opening, and pleasure seared him--skull to spine, a molten ribbon of heat that made his vision swim, his breath catch in a jagged whine. Jake's eyes flared--shock, hunger--but they were too feral, too lost in the haze of sweat and need.
"Keep going," Matt begged, voice a ruin, and Jake plunged back in, harder, reason torched. His hand returned, brushing the parted lips--soft, slick, trembling--and Matt arched, a scream shredding his throat as Jake fucked him senseless. Then, in a degenerate rush, Jake bent low, breath hot against Matt's neck, and kissed it--the skull-vulva, its lips plump and quivering. His tongue flicked out, tasting the slick, a hungry, wet rasp that sent Matt reeling. The sensation was obscene--Jake's mouth sucking at the clit, lips smearing the folds, a low growl vibrating against Matt's skull as he thrust deeper. Matt's world dissolved into heat and sound--the sloppy schlick of Jake's kiss, the thud of hips, the pulse of that new flesh under Jake's tongue--and he came, convulsing, cum soaking the sheets, a high, broken wail spilling from his chest, Jake's groan a rough echo as he followed.
They sprawled, breathless, and reality loomed. Jake stared at Matt's neck, panting. "What is that?" Matt snatched a mirror, pulse a drumbeat, and saw it: a tiny vulva, lips splayed from Jake's press, pink and glistening in his skull's hollow. He grazed it, and a keening whimper slipped free--sensitivity raw, a velvet shock that made his thighs tremble. Jake swore, retreating, but his cock twitched, glistening. "That's fucked," he muttered, voice thick, eyes ravenous. Matt's mind spun--revulsion a cold wave, terror a tight knot, need a dark, pulsing tide. The air smelled of sex and salt, his skin prickling with the afterglow. They didn't speak. Not yet.
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The breach broke him open. He couldn't erase it--Jake's fingers splitting him, the vulva's birth, the orgasm's shuddering crest, Jake's lips on it, wet and greedy. At the garage, he'd stall mid-wrench, the memory a phantom touch: the pop, the slick bloom, the electric jolt, the heat of Jake's tongue tracing him. His skin flushed, his cock ached under oil-stained denim, and he'd curse the pull, the way it rewrote him. Fantasies coiled tighter--Jake fucking him again, deliberate now, cock spearing that skull-pussy, stretching it, flooding his head with a heat that felt like drowning in honey.
The slit matured--outer labia plump and pale, a pink slit framed slick, a clit swelling at its peak, glistening like a dew-drop. He'd lock the bathroom, mirror angled, the room fogged with his breath, and stare, fingers trembling as they traced it. Each touch was a detonation--hot, wet, a pulse that sank into his marrow, his knees buckling as the air thickened with his own musk. He'd been the hunter--women bent over tailgates, his name a gasped prayer--but now he craved yielding, being used, the idea a dark bloom in his chest. He'd tease the clit, dip inside--the walls clutched, steaming, alive, a velvet grip--and come howling, cock dangling, the room spinning with the scent of his own surrender, his old self a fading echo.
Fantasies turned savage. Jake pinning him, taking him--ass, mouth, skull--then more, the air alive with imagined grunts. Two cocks. Three. Every hole breached, the skull-pussy a throbbing crown. He'd see them meet--one in his head, one in his throat, tips clashing inside, a violation that squeezed sobs from his lungs, the thought a slick, trembling thrill.
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