A Filthy hostel room with its grey sheets, grimy blanket, lumpy stained pillow,
torn wallpaper... and only God knows what that stain on the threadbare carpet
was. His nose wrinkled at the acrid smell of old piss and vomit wafting from
the corner of the small shabby room. He gave himself a strong reminder not
to walk around barefooted.
The smell of sour sweat, and the itchiness in his scalp... God, hope that's
just 'cos he hadn't been able to wash his hair in over a week. The alternative...
head lice... turned his stomach. He gazed at his hand. His only hand. Dirt
under the nails, dirt seemingly ingrained in the creases of his palm. He'd
wanted to shower, had even stripped in the communal bathroom, hissing as
the material grazed across the fresh wound, his gaze avoiding the mouldy
grouting and cracked tiles, nose turning up at the well-used, filthy cake
of carbolic soap. Who knew what orifices it had seen. Then the water, the
colour of urine, dribbling from the faucet... cold... no, fucking freezing.
No way!! Dressing at double-speed when another 'resident' arrived. Fumbling
with his clothes, unused to the strange absence of his left hand. Ignoring
the leer, shoving back the filthy hand that pawed his ass with a growled
threat of death if it happened again... and meaning it.
Later, he was lying on that filthy bed, fully clothed, chair pushed up against
the door handle to discourage night visitors of the human kind. Jacket splayed
open beneath him, tee-shirt creased and damp and smelly, clinging to his
strong torso. Gradually, his thoughts drifted away to a better time, a better
place, hearing soft male laughter, a well-remembered monotone, recalling
strong fingers grazing his flesh. Never a lover's caress, yet every touch
seared and burned into his brain in welcome. Any touch was heaven... and
hell.
His hand moved slowly downwards, trailing across a nipple, unbuckling the
belt, popping the button... lowering the zip. Fingers dragged up the tee-shirt
to expose soft pale flesh before easing down towards mud and blood-splattered
jeans. He pulled away the encrusted denim in jerky motions... right side,
then left, then right again—not too far—just enough for a hand to reach,
to stroke, to caress.
Filth in his head. Thoughts as dirty as his clothing. Golden eyes laughing,
with pupils dilated in lust. Long fingers replacing his own, kneading the
soft sacs, smoothing along the flaccid shaft until.... An energy bolt sizzles
through his nerve endings, his breathing quickens, blood surging through
his veins... downwards... with each stroke across that sensitive place. His
hardening erection, thick and warm, smooth and silky, throbbing in his grasp.
Hand stroking faster. A deep, sensual moan, as imagined soft lips kiss the
tip, tasting the pre-cum, golden eyes smiling up at him, teasing him. A phantom
mouth descends, engulfs. His heartbeat quickens. A soft keening cry as the
hand moves faster... faster. Images of his ghost lover, sucking, caressing,
teasing, taking him deeper into a hot haven.
"OhhhGod... OhhhhGodohhhGod"
Colours bursting behind closed eyelids.
"Muuullderr...."
Green eyes opening as his breathing slows. Gasps become softer. Finally his
heartbeat slows. Clean, golden light fading back into the dingy grey. His
fingers trail through the translucent semen splattered over belly and chest,
then snag the rough sheet to wipe away the damning evidence of solitary passion.
Filth. All around him.... His eyes travel the room in disgust. Yesterday
they had brought him here, left him here. The Doctor had fitted a prosthetic,
cheap plastic replacement for warm, solid flesh. Filled him with drugs that
dulled his pain of loss physically... but not mentally. Tears prickling his
eyes were brusquely wiped away before they could fall.
His face hardened. His arm was gone but he was alive, his mind was intact,
his memories whole. There were many who would be willing to buy what he knew.
He had names, places. It was time to seek them out, time to make new
acquaintances, and renew the old. Tomorrow he would leave this place, go
to St Petersburg. Seek out Vassily Peskow and a new life.
Filth on him... He would change. Strip off the dank clothing that stuck
to his body, steal more if necessary. Soak away the dirt and grime. Scrub
at his skin and hair, cleanse himself of the Gulag and the forest.
Filth in him.... He would strip away the self-loathing, the self-pity. Barricade
his heart before they could tear even more from his soul.
His eyes close and visions dance before him. Hazel eyes remembered, soft
brown hair cascading over a tall forehead, lips that cried 'kiss me!' and
a body, lean and tall and muscular and.... The barricade shook, crumbled
but he steeled his heart... then relented. Maybe some filth was worth keeping,
some dreams worth dreaming.
He smiled softly. Today he was so far down, but in sudden determination...
not yet out.
Filth
by Tarlan
Filth. Everywhere around him... on him... in him.
