The Hollowing Man by FleshVoid

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.

—-

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.

—-

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.

—-

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.

—-

The slit evolved. Its walls thinned, stretched, and one night, alone, Matt felt a whisper–a breeze through the opening, cool against the heat of his skin. He grabbed the vibrator–small, buzzing–and knelt, mirror propped, breath shallow, the air tasting of anticipation.

He slid it in, deeper, and his throat gurgled–a wet, bubbling glurk as the tip punched through. His eyes flared: it emerged in his mouth, a blunt nudge on his tongue, tasting of plastic and the musk-slick tang of his own flesh. His throat spasmed–a thick gloop-glorp–and drool slopped down his chin, warm and heavy.

He played, depravity a sweet unraveling. Tilting his head, he cranked the buzz, thrusting it through–slow, then sharp–savoring the sounds: a strangled gluck-gluck-gluck as it scraped his vocal cords, a hollow slurrrp on the pullback, the vibrations tingling his teeth. He gagged, coughed, then grinned, feral, the air thick with his own sweat. He snatched a straw, threaded it nape-to-mouth, and sucked–his slick coating his tongue, a sour bloom that made his cock twitch. Then, darker: he poured whiskey down the skull-hole, the burn blooming backward, a choking gargle as it hit his throat, the heat curling into his chest like a lover’s breath. He laughed–wild, unhinged–grabbing a rubber tube from his toolbox, snaking it through, and humming into it, the vibration rattling his skull, a low thrum that made his eyes roll back as he came, cock untouched, the room pulsing with the scent of whiskey and cum.

He was a hole. A toy. The horror was a dark, trembling joy, his skin alive with the weight of it.

—-

He confessed to Jake and Chris, voice a frayed wire, the air heavy with his need. “It’s through. I want you both. Inside.” They grinned–predatory, thrilled, their eyes glinting with the same hunger he’d felt. That night, Matt knelt naked, hair swept aside, the stretched slit glistening–a tunnel begging, its musk a faint, intoxicating curl. Jake stood behind, Chris in front, cocks gleaming with lube, the air buzzing with their heat. “Ready?” Jake rasped, and Matt nodded, a hollow moan spilling free, his skin prickling with the promise.

Chris thrust into Matt’s mouth–thick, unyielding, stretching his jaw as Matt sucked, spit pooling, the musk sharp and heady on his tongue. Jake breached the skull-hole–wider now, a steaming chute–and slid deep, groaning at the clutch, the sound a low rumble that vibrated through Matt’s bones. Matt’s body locked, then–it happened. Jake’s cock met Chris’s, a slick squish as their tips kissed inside the tunnel, a hot, grinding pulse that split Matt’s skull with sensation. His throat gurgled–a wet glurk-glorp–and the heat of it, the stretch, was a velvet abyss, pulling him under. Above him, Jake and Chris leaned in, mouths crashing, kissing hard–tongues slick, breath hot–a hungry tangle that made Matt’s chest ache with a strange, twisted awe.

They rutted, cocks sliding past each other, tips scraping in the tight, slick sleeve, the friction a shuddering thrill that made Matt’s clit pulse, his own cock weep. Jake gripped Matt’s hair, yanking to angle the hole, the pull a sharp, sweet sting; Chris clawed his jaw, forcing deeper, nails biting into skin. Their balls slapped–thwack-thwack–against neck and chin, a drumbeat of flesh that echoed in Matt’s ears, the air thick with their sweat and his own surrender. Jake spat into the skull-hole–a thick, hot gob–and Chris caught it in his mouth, swallowing as it oozed through, their kiss turning sloppy, spit raining onto Matt’s scalp, warm and slick against his skin.

Chris pulled out, smeared his cock across Matt’s face–sticky, musky, a wet trail that made Matt shiver–then swapped with Jake. Jake plunged into Matt’s mouth, the taste salt and heat, while Chris speared the skull-hole, their tips clashing again–a wet slap-slap inside that sent tremors through Matt’s frame. They kissed above, groaning, spit dripping down, a warm cascade that mingled with the slick on his neck. Jake grabbed Chris’s hand, pressed it to Matt’s throat–both squeezing, feeling the bulge of their cocks, a grotesque ripple under skin that made Matt’s breath hitch, his senses drowning in the press of their flesh. He choked–a guttural glorp-glurk–and they laughed, a low, dark sound, thrusting harder, their rhythm a brutal dance.

Jake yanked Matt’s head back, poured a shot of whiskey down the skull-hole–Chris gulping it from Matt’s mouth, their tongues swirling the burn, a shared heat that made Matt’s chest bloom with a perverse intimacy. Chris pinched the clit, a sharp, electric twinge; Jake twisted Matt’s tongue, a rough tug that sent sparks down his spine, and they traded ends again–cocks swapping, cum and spit smearing, a ritual of ruin. They traced circles in the slick on Matt’s back with rough fingers, chanting low–hole, hole, hole–their voices a primal hum that sank into his bones. Matt came–shattering, screaming, the tunnel seizing, a gush of slick heat flooding Jake’s cock, his own cum splattering the floor, the air thick with the scent of sex and whiskey. They roared, spilling inside–cum surging, mixing in a thick, pulsing swirl Matt tasted and felt drip from both ends, a warm, shuddering flood.

They slumped, cocks still touching inside, kissing slow–tongues lazy, slick with their own mess–above Matt’s trembling form. He knelt, a dripping husk, hollowed through, the afterglow a heavy, velvet weight on his skin, his breath a ragged hymn to what he’d become.

—-

Matt didn’t hide it. He’d sit at the bar, hair aside, the through-hole bared–stretched, glistening, a grotesque relic that shimmered with its own dark allure. Jake and Chris claimed him often–fucking him everywhere, but the tunnel was sacred, its slick warmth a call they couldn’t resist. They’d slide in, cocks clashing, kissing above, spitting and marking him, a profane rite that left Matt trembling with a strange, fierce pride. He’d come howling, the tunnel spasming, his body a shrine of surrender, the air alive with their musk and his own ragged moans.

He wasn’t Matt–not the mechanic who’d tuned engines, fucked in truck beds, his world a grid of steel and certainty. He was a hole, an icon, hollowed by the itch that devoured him whole. Horror turned to reverence, a dark bloom in his chest. He’d kneel, head back, mouth gaping, their cocks meeting inside–his gospel, his truth, the sensation a velvet abyss he’d never escape. The world stared, awed, their gazes a prickling heat on his skin. He was empty, filled, eternal.

—-

And so Matt’s tale ends–or begins anew–as a late-night whisper, an urban legend carved in flesh, a still life of a lesson no one sought. The Flesh Void, that cosmic poet of sinew and skin, saw his hollow life and filled it, tortured him with its gift, rewarded him for bending to its will. He walks among us now, a figure glimpsed in shadows–a man at a bar, hair swept aside, a glistening slit catching the light, his eyes alight with a pride you can’t name. You’ve seen him, haven’t you? A stranger in a crowd, a flicker at the edge of your vision, a shiver down your spine you couldn’t place. The story is true, truer than you’d dare admit, because the Flesh Void knows you too. It sees your life–its cracks, its hollows, its unspoken wants–and it waits, patient as stone, inspired by your quiet hours. You may meet Matt again, or become him, hollowed and filled by a whim not your own. For in the twilight of the Void, no one escapes its gaze, and every itch is a verse waiting to be written.

THE END