Chthonian Voice By Robert S. Costic
Robert Costic has written a collection of fairy tales, "Flamethrower Fairy Tales," a novella, "Kepler's Revenge," and a collection of aphorisms, "Lightning Words," and has translated fairy tales by Theodor Storm and Friedrich Hebbel from German. All are available as ebooks everywhere.
Patrick relieved himself at a urinal in a dungy bathroom at a public park. As he peed he heard a voice emanating from one of the stalls behind him. The voice told Patrick, "Lower your pants." Patrick was not sure what to make of this voice, but it spoke again. "Lower your pants. I want to see your ass." Patrick obediently lowered his pants so that his waistband hugged the very top of his thighs, just below his round butt cheeks, which faced the stall.
"Oh yeah," the voice said, "that's a sweet ass." The voice began to breathe deeply, and Patrick heard a beating sound coming from inside the stall. He looked over his shoulder at the stall, but he could not see anyone. There was a crack between the door and the wall. Whoever sat in that stall must have seen Patrick through that crack, but that crack was too far from Patrick for him to see through it.
Finally, the voice groaned and the beating stopped. Patrick was not sure what to do, but after a pregnant silence the voice spoke again. The voice said, "Go home. Leave your front door unlocked. Go to your bedroom. Take off your clothes. Lubricate your asshole. Lie on your bed, face down. I will come to your house, I will go inside, I will go to your bedroom, I will find you, and I will fuck you. But whatever you do, do not look at me."
Patrick flushed the urinal, lifted his pants, zipped up his fly, and left the bathroom. He walked home, unlocked the front door, went inside, and left the front door unlocked. He walked upstairs, entered his bedroom, took off his clothes, and climbed onto his bed. He poured some lubricant on his hand and fingered himself until his hole felt slick and smooth. He faced down and rested his head on a pillow.
Time passed, and in the silence of the house Patrick wondered whether the strange new voice would make good on its promise. He did not count the time, but in that dark silence hours seemed to pass. Patrick began to doze, but then he heard the front door open downstairs. Patrick's hole quivered. Was it the voice? Was it someone else? From the long and subtle creaking the door seemed to move glacially, but it finally latched. Patrick then heard steps coming up the flight of stairs.
The steps entered the room. Patrick said to himself again and again, "Don't look. Don't look. Don't look." He could sense the voice's presence, even though now it did not say a word. Patrick heard only those sounds that existed outside of language. Steps. The rustling of clothing. The subtle breaths of a living animal. Patrick sensed the voice climbing onto the bed. It touched Patrick's thighs and butt cheeks. It then pressed itself against him, and its dick slid into him. It quietly pounded his ass, with only the slap of skin against skin making any significant sound.
Then the thrusting stopped. It held its dick deep inside Patrick, and then it withdrew. It climbed off the bed. Patrick heard it rustling there in the bedroom, and in a moment it stepped out, went down the stairs, opened the front door, stepped outside, and closed the door. Patrick fingered his asshole and found it wet and tender, the rim of his sphincter gooey and stretched. He stuck his finger deep inside of himself and casually massaged his innards until he fell asleep.
The next day at work Patrick lingered in the restroom every time he went to use the urinal, waiting to hear a voice emanate from one of the stalls, as if the person had followed Patrick into his office building. But no such voice spoke to him. A colleague once ran into him and asked, "Are you all right?" which Patrick took to mean he should leave the urinal.
After work Patrick walked home, and on the way he passed a dark alley between two office buildings. He looked down the alley and saw a dumpster, but he could not see what was behind the dumpster. Could the voice be hiding there, waiting for him? Patrick walked down the alley and passed into the shadows of the buildings. He came up to the dumpster, which reeked of rotten Chinese food thrown out by a restaurant on that block. His heartbeat quickened in anticipation, but when he reached the back of the dumpster he could just barely see a rat scurry underneath the trash.
"I shouldn't have looked," Patrick said.
When Patrick returned home he picked up his mail out of the mail box. He unlocked the front door, went inside, and left the front door unlocked. He tossed his mail on the kitchen table, made himself some pasta, and ate. When he finished he walked upstairs, entered his bedroom, took off his clothes, and climbed onto his bed. He poured some lubricant on his hand and fingered himself. He faced down and rested his head on a pillow. He waited for the voice to return, and he fingered his innards as he waited, whispering, "Don't look, don't look, don't look..." The voice never came, and Patrick fell asleep, filling his dreams with the strange voice.
Later, on a dark moonless night, Patrick walked by the same public park he first found the voice, and there under the light of a street lamp Patrick saw the silhouette of a man facing him. Patrick could not make out any features of the stranger other than the basic outline of his shirt and pants. The man turned and walked silently into the recesses of the park, disappearing behind some bushes.
Was the man the voice from earlier? Patrick did not know. The man did not speak. But regardless, Patrick wanted him. He had fallen in love with the unknowable, and that's what he sought for consummation. Patrick walked behind the bushes into a corner of the park so dark he could barely see himself. There he felt the presence of the other man. He heard the man's steady breathing. Even though he could barely see, Patrick whispered to himself, "Don't look, don't look, don't look..." Hands of the stranger reached for Patrick's waistband and undid the button and zipper. Patrick's pants fell down. The stranger roughly turned Patrick around and inserted his wet prick into Patrick's quivering asshole, dilating the sphincter. In silence the stranger wrecked Patrick's hole, while Patrick himself felt the darkness completely envelop him like a warm blanket.