The Wet Echo Ch 02

Elias locked the door, the cheap brass bolt scraping into place, and peeled off his clothes--damp T-shirt, boxers stiff with sweat--letting them slump onto the stained linoleum.

He faced the bathroom mirror, its edges fogged with toothpaste splatter, and the slit stared back: a wet, lopsided gash, one labium sagging long and heavy like a tired sigh, the other plump and cracked, leaking a thin, musky slick that dribbled down his chin onto the sink's chipped porcelain. His eyes slid down. His cock hung there, thick and flushed, a stubborn anchor to the guy he used to be. He gripped it, slow strokes waking it up, and the slit twitched--tightening, drooling, a hot ache curling through his gut. He met his own gaze, hollow and wild, and a filthy urge purred in his skull: Fuck it. Fuck myself. It was sick, magnetic. He tilted his hips, guiding his cock up, the tip brushing the labia's spongy heat, smearing pre-cum into their tender folds. They parted, ridges pulsing like a plea, and he thrust--clumsy, urgent--but it slipped short, the clitoris grinding against him with a jolt of pain and bliss. He came hard, a ragged groan as his seed coated the slit, the canal sucking it in with a greedy shiver. He sank to his knees on the cold tile, musk thick in his throat, the slit throbbing like a bruise.

The day collapsed into itself, a sweaty haze in his crumbling apartment. He didn't leave--couldn't face the world beyond the peeling wallpaper. He grabbed cold mashed potatoes from a takeout tub on the counter, smearing them into the slit; it gagged, spitting back a sour, yellow dribble that stung his chest hair. Then cheap whiskey from a plastic bottle, poured slow, the slit drinking deep, folds loosening as the burn hit him fast, a warm drool sliding down his sternum to pool in his navel. In the shower--water tepid, pressure weak--he pressed four fingers in, then his fist, the labia stretching taut with a dull, searing ache, slick coating his knuckles as he chased that swollen ridge inside. It pulsed, a live wire frying his nerves, and he came untouched, cum hitting the mildewed grout as the slit clamped tight, wrenching his hand with cruel need. It was shifting--labia fattening, hair sprouting in wiry, damp clumps, the canal deepening like it thrived on his desperation.

He couldn't quit. Back on the sagging mattress, he stroked his cock, watching it swell, veins dark under the skin, and bent double, spine creaking, to try again. The tip nudged the slit's edge, teasing the stretched entrance, leaving sticky trails of pre-cum and sweat. It slipped, over and over, and the failure gnawed--disgust melting into a raw, gnashing want. Later, buzzed on more whiskey he'd trickled in, the slit slack and sloppy, he fished a dildo from under the bed--ridged, heavy, a relic from Mara's wilder days. She'd been a storm--tattooed, loud, a bartender who'd fucked him senseless in this very room before she ditched him for some drummer with better coke. He shoved it in, the labia splitting wide with a dry, grinding sting, the canal gripping it like a fist as he fucked his own face. Pain twisted into a slow, molten rush, his cock pulsing untouched, and he came--once below, twice inside, a hot flood that left him panting, the dildo slick with his ruin.

A knock cracked the air. "Elias?" Mara's voice, gravelly and too damn real. The door creaked--she still had that key he'd never taken back--and she stepped in, leather jacket dripping rain onto the warped floorboards. He stood there, dildo in hand, the slit raw and gaping, his cock hard and glistening with his mess. "Fuck me--" she started, then grinned, sharp and familiar, the same grin she'd flashed when she'd pinned him down that first night, all tequila and heat. "You're a beast now." She pulled her flask, whiskey glinting, and traced the slit's cracked edges, watching it suckle her fingers with a wet, needy tug. Elias groaned, hips bucking, and she pressed the flask's neck inside, pouring slow. The burn was a velvet lash, the labia trembling as they drank, and he grabbed her wrist, guiding her deeper, her skin rough from years of pouring shots at that dive bar. "It wants me too, huh?" she murmured, her breath a warm graze on his neck, smelling of cigarettes and regret.

She didn't flinch--just lingered, fingers teasing the stretched flesh, eyes tracing his collapse. "You're not the guy I knew," she said, low and cutting, but her touch stayed, steady as ever. Elias didn't care. He was flesh, ache, horror--a body chasing itself into the void. The whiskey haze thickened, his head lolling, and he slumped back onto the bed, the dildo still lodged deep, the slit clenching around it like a lover's grip. His cock softened, spent, as the room spun--rain tapping the window, Mara's boots scuffing the floor--and he fell asleep, sprawled and broken, the plastic shaft a cruel, intimate weight pinning him to his new, fucked-up self.