Consumed- The Complete Works

by Kyle M. Scott

  Her long golden hair tickles my nostrils. The scent of orange, strong but not overpowering, casts a spell on me.

  As she pulls away, I hear Curt laugh. “You’re looking mighty flushed there, Ed. You cool?”

  “Yes...yes,” I stammer. “I’m fine. I get a little flushed when I’m hungry.”

  Sheila giggles. “I just bet you do, honey.”

  Desperate to change the subject, I steer the conversation back to the room, and to Curt’s questions.

  “As I was saying. We pride ourselves here, at The Oceanside Inn, on making sure that all our clientele receive the finest of care we have to offer.”

  “But you said this was your finest room...” Curt pokes.

  “And it is.”

  “So I gotta ask...why isn’t Senator Horn kicking off his loafers in this here palatial pad?”

  “The senator always stays in the same room. He has done since he first visited us. It’s become something of a tradition for him. His room has its own share of splendor, though not quite as special as this one. I like to think he sees his initial stay here as something of a footnote in his trajectory to his current political standing. He would have it no other way.”

  “Cool. Keeping in touch with his routes. Maybe he’s not the war-mongering shithead I took him for, after all!” Curt laughs.

  “Indeed. And besides. I must admit to having taken a certain shine to both of you. It warms my heart to play a part in your journey, however small and inconsequential, and I hope you’ll remember me well.”

  Sheila’s smile burns brighter than the sun that so recently set. My heart hurts for her, but I am a professional.

  A man of business.

  I look to Curt, who is facing the huge mirror that adorns the east wall. The glass takes up the greater part of the wall, and I’m surprised to find that a man as handsome as he is, seems to have no love his own reflection. He looks away quickly.

  “I could use a shower,” he murmurs.

  I point him to the bathroom. “Right over there, Curt.”

  “Thanks, bud.”

  Sheila is not so timid.

  She moves to the mirror and spins gracefully in front of it. Her eyes drop to her bosom, where she openly admires her own smooth, luscious contours.

  “I love it,” she purrs.

  Both she and Curt smile at each other, and in their eyes I see it.

  Love.

  Not an abstract idea or a fleeting, childish whimsy.

  Actual love.

  Unbound and unrestrained.

  Certainly as yet untested by the harsh, clawing horrors of the world.

  She holds the same reverence for this man as I once held for my dear deceased father, and my once beautiful, proud mother.

  I confess to feeling a sense of whimsy myself, on seeing such innocent verve and joy.

  I clear my throat to garner their attention. Only Curt turns to me, which is fine, as it is he whom I wish to address.

  “I hope you enjoy your evening, folks. Breakfast is at nine,” I look to the window, hoping to direct Curt’s eyes there. “And Curt, if I may be so bold, this would be a fine place to heed my advice on what we discussed earlier...”

  Although he says nothing, he turns to me and winks.

  “Thanks, Ed. I mean it.”

  Sheila’s brow furrows in a most charming, playful manner. “What are you two boys squawking about?”

  I choose not to answer, and instead I take my leave. “Have a wonderful evening. Cherish every moment,” I say.

  And with that, I leave Room 7, followed out the door by smiles as warm and trusting as any I have seen since I ran through the fields and climbed the trees of Eastport, a million miles down the road and down the years.

  The sun is all the way over the horizon now.

  A full, brilliant moon shines over the palm trees, laughing with the stars as its light dances on the soft waves of the Pacific.

  In the room where I'm stood, the lights are turned down low. The effect is almost mediaeval as the candles burn softly by the window. A bottle of the finest scotch rests, half empty, on the nightstand.

  I myself do not partake. I have seen how much damage alcohol can do to a person – how it can ravage one’s soul. My mother’s descent into the abyss remains with me, always.

  Senator Horne, however, expects only the finest whiskey of an evening, and as I’m joining him for the time being, I have opened a most precious bottle – dated 1938. The musky scent of the scotch on his breath is almost enough to make my senses reel. I say nothing of the matter.

  I remain professional, always.

  Both he and I are stood before the huge glass mirror, though to call it a mirror is a matter of perspective, and one that's wholly inaccurate from where we are standing.

  From Room 7, where Sheila and Curt reside, it is indeed a mirror – they are watching themselves in it even as I speak – but from the next room along, where the senator and I are situated now, it is a window.

  For this is the only room at the Inn that boasts not one, but two windows.

  One that casts its gaze over the oceans endless majesty, and one that looks, with cold concern, into Room 7.

  As I watch my young guests in their room, I feel the glass dissolve before me. I feel myself right there beside them. A welcome guest.

  Of course, they are unaware of our intrusion. Just as they are unaware of the small microphones, installed in all four corners of the room that feed to us, with starting clarity, every grunt and groan of their animalistic lovemaking.

  I tremble as I feel Mr. Horne’s hand grasp my throbbing erection in the same firm, masculine grip that I have become used to over the years. My breath hitches as he strokes my length. I feel the inexorable pull of orgasm as he strokes me, and as I watch the two lovers beyond the secret window.

  Sheila is on all fours.

  Her arse reared up to meet Curt’s impressive length. He pushes into her with a calm, assured sensuality. With each plunder of her vaginal cavity, she sighs in ecstasy. She pushes her ass back onto him, welcoming his full shaft into her glistening wetness. Curt has one hand placed lightly on her sweat-shone spine, and with his other, he gently probes her anus, up to the knuckle, with his forefinger, as he thrusts into her slick warmth.

  As his ministrations grow in ferocity and speed, so too does the senator’s pleasuring of my own member. I reach with my left hand, feeling between his legs, take his penis in my hand, and begin to stroke in time with his own rhythms. I fight to hold back on my ever-accelerating rush towards orgasm, desiring only to climax when Sheila does.

  Thankfully, the wait is not too long. Curt’s skilful mastery of her sex brings her to crashing orgasm, just as my own crescendo reaches its peak. He pulls his engorged penis from her sex-slimed hole and ejaculates on her anus. She squeals as he does so, and I, in turn, find myself helpless to hold off any longer. I acquiesce to my own ecstasy as Sheila drops her arms and her head falls to the pillow. She smiles dreamily as Curt spanks a cheek. I imagine that she’s smiling for me, as jet after jet of my own ejaculate spurt from my swollen head and pattern the glass.

  The senator reaches orgasm only moments after my own, and I feel his warm seed tickle my hand, where it rapidly cools.

  I wish to clean it off, but he is adamant that I do not. The senator does not believe on wasting resources, and requires that I eat his semen.

  I dutifully do so.

  In Room 7, all has gone quiet. Curt has joined Sheila on the bed, spent and exhausted, where they rest, arm in arm, kissing each other softly in the afterglow of their passion.

  Such nice young people.

  So full of life and love.

  As I taste the salt of Horne’s seed on the back of my tongue, I wonder why he doesn’t eat mines.

  The thought is fleeting.

  Only a passing whisper in the back of my mind.

  “Quite a show,” he says, pulling up his slacks as I do the same with mines.

  “Yes, sir. Quite a
show, indeed.”

  “I really must stop being so selfish. I should bring more of my colleagues to your fine establishment. I come here all too often, and I have a number of friends who would jump at the chance for this sort of show, not to mention the final act.”

  “As you know, sir. All are welcome. Of course, as long as they understand the need for discretion.”

  He laughs aloud. It sounds almost mocking. “Oh, they understand discretion just fine, Edward. They are politicians, after all. We do not build the world under the gaze of the public eye, we build it in the shadows, where the light can never expose our purposes.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And I must thank you for your own fine work on my cock. Sterling work! You really are becoming something of a master at the art.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And how is the scotch?” I ask, feeling sheepish. The act in which we have both shared does not reach as far as intimacy. It is as cold and uncaring as the stars that glint silently beyond the west window.

  “The scotch, Edward, is exquisite. You never fail to amaze me.”

  “I do my best, sir.”

  “I’m sure you do. And are all the preparations made for later?”

  “Yes, sir.” I feel stiffening in my sore, spent penis at the mention of it. It seems my virility is matched by my own growing depravity.

  The senator takes a long drink of his scotch, emptying the glass. He lays it on the bedside table and sighs, “That young couple really are something. Such vitality. Such hope. Such love.”

  “Yes, sir. I was quite taken with them myself. I almost neglected to give them the room, I’m loathe to admit.”

  He laughs, still gazing ahead at the two worn-out lovers wrapped in each other’s embrace.

  “Well, I must say, I am glad you gave in to your more base desires. There’s little in this world less attractive than compassion. Although it does add a certain flavor to the dish.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  For a brief moment, I think of my father, and wonder what he would have made of me. Would he have understood my need to succeed at all costs, or would he balk at my choices.

  I like to believe he would admire my ambition, but I fear that, despite his own pathway leading to acts considered criminal, he would deem my situation to be positively devilish.

  No matter. I swore I would succeed, and succeed I shall.

  “He’ll be coming tomorrow morning,” the senator says.

  I find myself caught off guard. I have no idea we were expecting another guest, and I say so.

  “Who will be coming, sir?” I ask, trepidation coursing through my veins like cold fire.

  “Someone very important. Someone who knows of our lifestyle, and wishes to partake.”

  As the senator seems content to share only this tidbit of knowledge and no more, I must trust him. He is, after all, a member of congress.

  I say no more on the matter.

  “What time did you say breakfast would be served?”

  “Nine, senator. As always. My wife is preparing the kitchen right now.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Our conversation is cut short, as Curt’s voice drifts from the speakers, cutting through the relative quiet from the comfort of Room 7.

  “Will you marry me?” he asks Sheila.

  She raises her head from the pillow, her face a picture of awe. She smiles, ever so slowly. As it reached her eyes I fear my heart will stop entirely.

  The white of her teeth reminds me of the moon, and I wonder if that great orb in the night sky can feel jealousy.

  I myself certainly can.

  “Oh, Curt,” she whispers. We hear it loud and clear, but the words carry with them a love I have never known, nor most likely ever will.

  My soul is not measured for such a fit.

  “Of course I will,” she says.

  And with that, they embrace.

  “Very touching. Shall we?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I reach for the lever situated on the wall by my right hand side, and with little effort, I pull it towards me. It moves silently, almost fluid. As it reached the bottom of the levee, there is a small click.

  The senator laughs.

  I join him.

  In Room 7, the two lovers have no time to scream.

  No time to scurry for the safety of the soft carpet.

  As the wall behind them rises like a theatre curtain, and the foot of the king–size bed begins its ascent towards the ceiling, they merely stare at each other in horror.

  It is always this way.

  So slow.

  So dim-witted.

  By the time Sheila and Curt – newly engaged and with nothing more ahead of them besides agony and terror - are tumbling toward the head of the bed, down the cold metal chute and into the basement, they have found their screams.

  And they scream plenty.

  My experiences in the past taught me that even the poor, and the downtrodden, have a right to lay their lice-ridden heads down of a night, and in my keen business-centric mind, I found a way to enhance my humble fortune, and clean up the state in my own little way while doing it.

  You see, the world has changed a great deal since my burgeoning career as an Innkeeper. We have borne witness to the fall of our once proud society, as the new generation cuts a drug-fuelled swath through the long-standing heritage of this great nation.

  Fornicators, unwashed and unrepentant in their defilement of their minds and bodies.

  The Vietnam War has unwittingly become the harbinger of an uprising, a forging of a new line of thought. One which would make my father, and men like him, cast their heads low in shame.

  We stand on the precipice of a revolution in this country, one that will most certainly herald the downfall of our economy, our finely tuned war-machine, and our sanctified way of life.

  And so I see myself not only as Innkeeper, but as cleanser.

  A man who understands the need for renewal.

  For the reaping of the fields.

  In my own small way, I do what I can to help keep the numbers down. I do what I can to contain the epidemic spreading amongst our youth.

  I do my small part to ensure my legacy.

  And, of course, I do my very best to garner my fortune.

  This Inn will never be enough for me. I’m growing. Becoming the man I was born to be, and with the proper help from my most elite clientele, I will rise to the top of the economic hierarchy.

  I rush from the senator’s room and make my way to the basement just as quick as I can. The senator does not join me, having no interest in what will now transpire. It’s a stance I find amusing and somewhat perplexing, given his taste for the depraved. Yet, as always, I abide by his wishes. The customer is always right, and Mr. Horne is most certainly my most esteemed of customers.

  As I reach the small room behind the reception desk, I stop involuntarily. Perhaps it is a compulsive gesture, but there is never a night like tonight when I don’t allow myself a moment to stop, stand and listen.

  The screams that are surely echoing around the walls of the Inn’s lower floor cannot be detected. Not even remotely. My ears are caressed, only, by the gentle lapping of the waves down by the shore, and the soft chirruping of cicadas as they sing their song to the warm night air.

  The walls have been soundproofed with impeccable precision. The few guests residing in the property will sleep soundly on their soft pillows and dream their soft dreams, and all the while the horrors unfolding beneath their stretched out bodies will continue unabated.

  I smile, taking some delight in the game, and then I make my way into the basement. As I open the door, their screams reach me – muffled and muted, but soaked in despair – and I find myself tingling with anticipation.

  I close the door behind me, shutting out the civil and the morally acceptable, with little more than the click of a lock falling into place.

  The basement resemb
les any other lower floor in any of a thousand hotels or inns that pepper the western coast of the USA.

  Much of our storage is kept within these walls, sacks of organic food rest beside spare kitchenware. Pots and pans, some new and some used but so clean and polished as to give the illusion of remaining unused, are stacked almost ceiling high. There is a small collection of spare wooden chairs for the upstairs breakfast area, and of course, we have a wall-to wall rack boasting the finest wines, chardonnays, and liquors from all over the world. We aim only to provide the best for our clientele.

  In the centre of the room there rests a huge metal vat, standing just under eight feet tall and with a circumference suitable for holding at least two adult-size human beings, give or take a few pounds. Above it, a funnel penetrates the basements ceiling, attached to the large chute that links to Room 7. The fall from the chute into the vat is a small one. There is little room for maneuvering. On occasion a resident of Room 7 will break a leg or perhaps an arm during the fall, but it’s of no concern. All who find themselves in our basement attempt to escape, shattered limbs or not, but none ever do. The walls are as smooth as fresh winter ice on an undisturbed lake. There are no footholds or handholds with which to propel oneself upwards. Those with broken bones only make their hopeless struggle for escape all the more pathetic.

  As I stand there listening to the screams cascading off the vat’s inner walls, I realize that tonight, Curt has already suffered such a misfortune. His cries are not only borne of fear and confusion, as Sheila’s are. No, his emanations carry the air of real pain.

  Despite enjoying the man, I find myself amused by this. The prospect of his perfect body succumbing to the same rigors and trauma as the rest of us, somehow gives me hope.

  We are all human.

  From the dark, cobweb sprinkled corner to my left, I pull out the ladder, and gently place it against the side of the vat. The ladder is only small – six feet in height – but it’s sufficient for my uses. I climb the vat and look over the rim at the two hapless souls below.

  Both immediately stop screaming as they see my face appear above them. I like to think that in these moments I am, for all intents and purposes, a god, gazing down on the helpless souls below and ready to pass judgment.