It is madness that draws me here night after night.

Madness that draws me down from the upper floors of our building, away from my family - from my sisters and my parents - from the comfort of my own bed where I should be nestled in the soft comfort of satin and down.

Madness that draws me to pad barefoot and dressed only in shorts and a loose top, past all the sleeping tenants of this old brick and mortar prize in Manhattan. It is an old neighbourhood built on ancient ground and this is an old building rooted in soil that reeks of long dead things and some that still live.

I take the stairs instead of the elevator for I do not want to be seen - and no one else uses the stairs. Seven flights I climb down the on the nights I can't resist my madness and seven flights I struggle up in the small hours of each morning on weak, trembling legs, my feet filthy from my journey and my body stinking from my own sweat and secretions and ... well, the other smells and drying fluids.

Five flights of stairs from our fifth floor apartments and two more underground. One flight that leads from the ground floor to the cellar where the bottom of the elevator shaft rests and the large grey boiler that heats the building by pumping steam through the clanking pipes squats and roars. I walk past these and past the storage areas that hold dusty stacks of tiles and wood and brick.

And behind the boiler is the hidden old small rusted door that creaks horribly so I only open it barely enough to squeeze my slim body through to pass into the darkened narrow stairs that wind downward where no one else ever goes. Almost no one, that is. There is the Creeper. And me.

I found this place as a child and visited often, my mother chiding me for getting so dirty on my adventures. Little did she know that my adventures would become waking sensual nightmares and I would become a much dirtier girl as I grew.

As I squeeze through the doorway and descend to the sub-cellar, my bare feet feeling the grit of the stone stairs, I wonder how long I will be able to maintain this practice. My psychologist talks of sustainability of affect - urging me to work harder to lift the depression that has engulfed me. In years and months it really hasn't been that long, but stringing these night together, it feels like a lifetime.

I am tired.

So tired.

I'm tired of life. Tired of living a hollow existence. Tired of spending most of my time in my perfectly decorated room doing little but wandering the internet and sleeping most of the day away.

I am tired too of making this journey. Some weeks I come once, yet there are stretches of time that I descend here every night for weeks on end, draining my body and my strength away. Hoping, perhaps, that one day I will die here.

This place stinks. It stinks of sour earth and mould, and faintly of putrefied flesh. And there is another smell - a reptilian smell that I know so well. It has the scent of tidal pools on the shore - the smell of life and death - of briny semen and eggs and rotting flesh.

It is a maze down here. Low arched brick ceilings faintly lit by yellowed and encrusted light bulbs that have been dimmed by age and hang loose from brewer's cord that is strung down the narrow corridors. These ragged dim lights are always on and though most are burned out, the few that remain cast just enough light to navigate the passageways. Many small rooms - almost cells - branch off of these corridors, their original purpose lost to a neglected history of this old island, and among them is the room I seek.

It is similar to the rest, a square cube of no more than 8 feet only lit by the faint sick yellow glow of a bulb twenty feet from its entrance, but this one is different than the others. This one has an old stinking mattress laid on the debris strewn floor, and one corner of the room has collapsed - the bricks scattered and piled where the weight of the building above pushed down hard enough to crumble the mortar and burst out the wall.

As I enter this room and stand in the doorway - this room where madness lives - I stare at the triangular darkness of the crushed far corner for a moment. The room is very dark so the hole in the corner is a shadow within a shadow. I suppose I could string a bulb to light it - but there are things in this world that should never be seen.

I can hear faint movement deep within the hole from something far away - far away in the bowels of the earth. Peeling off my shorts and top I put them atop an old wooden box near the entrance to keep them dry. I know that it will become wet in here in the next few hours and I don't want my clothes slimy and sopping. It always gets wet in here, and not with water.

I can feel the slightly sticky residue on the gritty floor from two nights ago on my bare feet as I pad across to the mattress. I come bare footed because I ruined too many pairs of sneakers when the madness first began; the ... fluids ... can be washed from skin and hair, but not from fabric. Too often I have seen my white socks wet and pink from what ends up on the floor in here. Washing them by hand in my bathroom sink makes me feel sick, so no socks and no shoes for me.

I kneel and crawl across to the centre of the mattress before I turn and lay down, my legs toward the triangle of darkness in the corner. I can feel the grit of the crusted fabric on the soft skin of my bum and back as I lay propped up on my elbows, watching the hole in the wall. I know that soon fluids will rehydrate the dried residue and they will become slippery under my body.

The mattress itself stinks of sweat and urine and vomit and blood and an almost unholy reek of something earthy and ancient. As I lay and wait I can feel the gentle movement of warm air wafting from the cavernous hole in the wall at my feet and I can smell him. I lift my legs, bending my knees, and splaying my thighs wide, feeling my labia open to the air, then decide to stretch my legs out instead, bring them together. Sometimes it is better this way - to let his weight open my thighs.

How many times have I done this? How many hours have I laid here and submitted myself to this erotic horror? A few hundred? A few thousand? Perhaps more. Yet as I wait I still feel the fear knotting my bowels. I still feel my body growing tense. You'd think I would be used to it by now. I have three times become pregnant in this room and three times miscarried whatever it was growing inside me. Those events I rode out while sitting on the pristine white toilet in my pristine white tiled bathroom upstairs. And once they were done I flushed without looking. Some things I can't bare to allow myself to see.

I can hear movement echoing from deep in the earth out of the corner - he is getting closer. I don't know how he senses that I am here, but he does. He never keeps me waiting long. I know he can feel through his skin, but whether he can hear or see, I have no idea. I do know his sense of touch is unlike ours, for I know he feels what I am feeling and knows what effect his body has on my own and feeds off the sensations he causes in me. And feeds off other things.

Though he is silent because he has no voice, his body does make a soft moist slithering sound as he moves. And he's getting very close.

It won't be long now.

I try to relax, try to calm my body. I breathe deep and slow, pushing my wind out through my mouth and drawing it in through my nose just like my psychiatrist taught me. I clench and release groups of my body muscles in succession, but not too much because I know how tired I'm going to be later and I have to conserve my strength.

I hear a small sound from the passageway and cock my head. I wonder if it's the Creeper. He is the only other person who knows of this place, and he should know it being that he is the one who keeps the boiler working and the lights on. But I don't hear anything more, so it may have been a rat. I used to know the Creeper's real name, but I've forgotten it. I don't pay much attention to people anymore.

The sound of bricks scraping against each other in the corner sounds like a scream in the stillness of the room.

My head snaps back toward the triangular hole and I squint to see. Yes, there is movement - shadows within shadows within shadows - and one is moving toward me.

He's here.

I take one last cleansing breath and let it out as I feel his weight slide onto the foot of the mattress, compressing it under his bulk. His warm wet body slides over my feet and I feel the tentacles slithering up the outside of my legs - he is feeling me and tasting me. I relax. I always relax when he first touches me, when his body contacts mine.

His wetness slides over the skin of my legs as he undulates upward over me. His body is smooth and slick like a slug's, and he is large and heavy. As his bulk slides over my thighs, his weight pushes down, trying to push my legs apart. I try to hold them together because I like the feeling that I am being forced, but as he slides up over me and more of his weight comes to bare, they are forced apart and so I relent and open them, welcoming him between my thighs. His body fits there so well.

I love the feeling of his heavy body sliding up over my crotch and onto my lower belly. His flesh is smooth and slick, oozing what feels like oil, but not as heavy. I know that fluid will flow over me and inside me tonight as it always does. I know that the mattress will be sopping and slick with it, and I know there will be a spreading puddle surrounding the mattress when we are done.

I lay my head back and roll my face to the side, closing my eyes as he undulates further up my body - covering my belly completely, sliding up over my small breasts - making my skin slick and slippery. I reach up and lay my hands on his sides - he's too big around for me to hold - I feel his smoothness and his slipperiness while his body moves over me like a slug, undulating and slithering.

His tentacles slide over my skin and wind around my legs, starting at my thighs and winding down to my ankles. He grips them firmly and opens them wide, then squeezes them against his sides. Larger tentacles slide around my waist and ribs and slide under me, wetting the mattress and pulling me tight to his body. Then smaller ones encircle my arms and hold them out to the sides - making me look like I'm being crucified.

His body is in position now - the way he likes it. The way I like it. I feel the sucking as he adheres to my tummy and breasts and his fluid oozes from between us and I can feel it slithering down my ribs to pool under me. My nipples begin to tingle as the cilia on his belly undulate and stroke my skin. I feel the thickness of his main probe between my thighs, pressing firmly at my sex, moving there as though he is massaging me. This is his form of foreplay - he never wastes time. His probe shudders and I feel his fluid pulse up inside me. It fills me deep and the sudden pressure in my sex causes some of it to spurt back out of me, spraying my inner thighs and the mattress. He presses hard ...

“... hunnnnnggh ...” I grunt and squirm under his weight, knowing my descent into sweet sexual hell is beginning.

His tentacles slowly squeeze me all over, hugging me tight to his body, and he presses hard up into me and though that part of his body is thick, there is so much oily fluid that I feel myself opening - my sex forced open. I imagine it is like giving birth, but in reverse. And no matter how many times he does this to me, it is overwhelming.

“hwaaaaaaaahhhhhh!” I cry out as I am stretched open - my sex gaped but the band of muscle tight around him. His probe is so thick and slippery and firm and he slides so deep into me that I feel my cervix pressed up into my uterus. He holds it tight there for a moment then wiggles it violently then holds still and presses harder. I feel my thighs try to squeeze together and my toes curl.

One time, when he let go of my arms, I reached down and fondled his probe - it is so thick that when I wrapped both hands around it my fingers didn't touch. It's long too - so long I really don't know it's true dimensions.

“AHH!” I almost scream as he starts to fuck me. Long quivering strokes that pull out almost all the way then slide back in deep and swift - each thrust pushing hard against my cervix and uterus, sending shock waves up through my belly. Each thrust ends with a pulse of his fluids that jet up into my uterus and after awhile start spurting from the tightness between his probe and my stretched labia. He loosens his tentacles somewhat and I squirm and cry out and grunt as I am fucked so deeply and thoroughly. He is like a machine in his movements.

When I first found this place as a girl I wondered what lived in the caverns that the hole appeared to lead to. I would sit in the darkness and listen for hours, hearing the distant susurrations and slitherings. At other times I would examine the discarded debris in the room and was puzzled to find old soiled clothing, many, many pairs of panties - panties of all sorts that later I came to learn were from different eras. I looked the styles up and there were ones from the 1930s and 1940s, some even back into the 1800s. Even then I realized that whatever went on in here required girls to be naked and I realized it had been going on for a very long time.

There were newer panties there too.

Back when I was first visiting this room, there was an older girl - a teenager - who lived with her family on the floor below us. She was thin and appeared frail and I would see her in the company of her mother on occasion. Her eyes had dark shadows under them and held a haunted look - a far-away look. Gossip in the building said she was anorexic. One day as I scrounged around this room I found a new pair of panties, the crotch soiled with a pink crust. And around that time I came into the room one morning to find a large puddle of milky pink fluid on the floor and the mattress smeared with it - it had the coppery smell of blood.

It wasn't long after that discovery that the girl disappeared. While everyone else searched the neighbourhood, I went down to this room. I found her clothes rumpled beside the mattress but no sign of her. As I sat and listened at the hole I heard long quavering moans echo up from deep in the earth.

And now I wonder if I will come here one night and instead of awaiting him on the mattress, I will slip out of my clothing and crawl into the darkness below.

He's fucking me, fucking me, fucking me. And it is bliss ... total bliss as he pistons in and out of my sex with his fat firm probe. My uterus is plump with his fluid and the mattress is a soupy mess under my bum and lower back. And his other tentacles are exploring me now.

He has many tentacles. With them he strokes my skin and hair and face. Once he slid a long muscled and slippery tentacle into my mouth and down my throat - that was a terrifying and orgasmic experience.

Now his tentacles are busy at my anus, slithering and wetting it, loosening it to gain entrance. He likes this, I've learned. I like it too. I bear down and press outward to open myself and the tips of two tentacles slither inside me, quickly filling my rectum then reaching further into me. Deeper into me.

I feel them exploring my bowels, slithering and wriggling up the left side of my lower belly. The sensations are overwhelming. Being fucked so thoroughly, having my belly invaded by the slithering snakes of his tentacles. From what I feel he is wriggling inward about a foot, then pulling back six inches or so before slithering deeper. I read online that I have over 30 feet of intestine - this will be a long process.

And he's doing this on the outstroke of his probe in my sex. I saw something online once called 'double-penetration' and that's what this is. But it's more than that. So much more. So much deeper and invasive.

My bowels react to this invasion of wriggling slimy tentacles and begin to roll with peristalsis. It feels like my belly is alive and full of snakes.

I am crying out wordlessly and continuously now like an animal, lost in this sensual bliss. It feels like my body is being consumed by him from the inside. He is in me ... deep in me. His long thin tentacles are wriggling across the top of my abdomen through my large colon. Now down the right side ... deeper ... deeper ... deeper. Our bodies are one - intertwined externally and internally.

He is feeding on me - I know he is. I've known it for a long time. I keep losing weight, no matter how much I eat or what I eat - I keep losing weight. I learned about calories online and for my height and weight I should be eating 2000 calories a day. I now eat 8000 per day and a lot of it fatty foods, yet I am still too thin for my height. I once went a week without coming down here and gained 6 pounds. But he took it from me in my first two nights back with him.

Even now in these moments I can feel him absorbing things from inside me. He fucks me for hours on end, filling me with his fluids and doing things to my body that no human ever could. And in return he is slowly devouring me.

I'm lost. A lost girl. How can I ever give this up? How can I ever stop and want to go on without this bliss? No man could ever fuck me like he fucks me. No man can ever envelope my body and make it feel like it does in these moments. No man can ever reach the depths of my core like he does.

I don't know if this is truly an orgasm or not. It feels like an orgasm, but it goes on for hours like this - with full intensity - total body involvement. I've reached the point where I'm slipping in and out of consciousness. Like always, the night becomes a blur ... a blur of sensations ... of shadows and wetness ... squirming in this puddle of warm slime ...being fucked and fucked and fucked. Snakes wriggling in my belly.

I recall my first time ... I was a virgin then and when he invaded me and the overwhelming feelings began, I thought I was dying. And I didn't care. And now as I drift in an out of consciousness the memory of that first time and what is happening right now blur together.

...

Awake and somewhat aware again: Floating through the sweet sensations of him wriggling inside me while his thickness thrusts over and over into my sex. There is so much of him inside me I feel bloated - my belly tight and full. Drifting now ... lost again.

...

Opening my eyes, thinking it is a dream, but it isn't. This is real. His body is latched to mine, his flesh inside my flesh. Pulsating orgasmic bliss radiating from my core ... my nipples tingling and aching so sweetly. Giving myself to it again - closing my eyes and letting him fuck me.

...

Eyes opening slowly, being more accustomed to the almost non-existent light. I realize we are no longer alone. I search the shadows near me ... it's him. The Creeper.

He sits on a wooden crate watching me - his eyes hungry and lustful. His pants are undone and his penis is in his hand and he strokes it slowly, watching me mating with this monstrosity.

I can hear the squishing sounds from the slimy fluids I am laying in and my own rhythmic grunting as I am fucked. The Creeper is watching and I don't care. I wonder how long he has been watching me this night. I know he comes here often when I am like this. I also wonder how many other girls he has watched over the years.

“Feels good, doesn't he?” he asks in his raspy voice as he usually does. He has limited conversation openers.

“... y-yes ... so good ...”

Watching him now - his lustful gaze, his hungry eyes.

“... y-y-you like ... to ... watch me ...”

“Oh baby, I love to watch you.”

“... y-y-you wish he would ... fuck you instead ...”

“Oh hell, yeah. But he only takes girls. How does it feel?”

“... he ... he's so deep ... inside my belly ... moving like snakes ...” I whimper and drift out for a time, wave after wave of pure pleasure drowning me, ending my conversation with the Creeper.

...

Awake again - eyes blurring as I try to make out the shadow looming over me. The Creeper again ... no, still. He's still here, only now he is kneeling on the mattress - knees in the puddle of milky pink slime on one side of my head, one hand holding himself upright on the other side. His free hand stroking his cock and his breathing ragged and desperate. I can hear his chest wheezing from all the cigarettes he smokes. He's trying to cum on me. Cum on my face.

I don't care.

I close my eyes as I hear his groaning and feel the pearly droplets spattering on my cheek and lips and hair.

I just don't care - I'm that far gone.

...

“... hungghhhhhhhh ...” I come wide awake as I feel his tentacle wriggling into my stomach and my body convulses in reaction. He's only been this deep a few times. He is teasing me inside - the tip of the tentacle flicking up into my gullet. He tenses up and I feel the pull all through my digestive tract. I scream because it feels so intense. He owns me. I feel like he owns my body and soul.

...

Awake again ... the Creeper is gone but the fucking continues; Thrusting, thrusting, thrusting; snakes still slithering through my gut.

The convulsions awaken me out of a dead sleep. My body is spasming, twisting, writhing, pulling against the tentacles holding my limbs and body. My bowels are alive with snakes wriggling through them. It is him withdrawing his tentacles and I can feel every sweet sinful inch of them as they slither through me. He tickles as he withdraws, the tip of each tentacle flickering in my belly.

It's too much. I scream and faint dead away.

...

Awakening again - only seconds have passed. I feel his tentacles slithering out through my large intestine, my anus vibrating from the sensation of his swift withdrawal. But it is his thickness pulling out of my sex that has roused me. I grunt loudly as he pulls out and leaves me feeling hollow. His weight slides off my body, sliding down off me as the last three feet of his tentacles wriggle out of my bowels.

He has left me. I hear the bricks grinding against one another as he returns to his deep hole. I roll onto my side and curl up in a ball, my knees drawn up to my chest, my arms wrapping around my quivering body. I lay shivering in the pool of slime - it is thickening, becoming sticky like setting jelly.

I'm so tired. I feel used up.

Hopeless.

Alone.

The thought of wiping his slime from my body and slipping on my clothes does not appeal to me. Climbing the flights of stairs to our apartment and my room is too much to even contemplate.

I know I can't last much longer. There will come a day that I am so thin and so weak that I won't be able to return here. But the desire to return will drive me mad.

I know what I must do.

...

The bricks are sharp on my hands and knees as I crawl through the entrance to the hole. The hole is steep and hard-packed clay and I slide more than crawl as I descend. The hole is so deep - deeper than I imagined.

It is warm down here. Almost hot.

And pitch dark.

I can smell them. As I suspected, there is more than one of him. Their smell is strong and as the hole becomes less steep the clay is growing moist.

Then slippery.

I feel the soft slime of one body, then another. My hands slip from their bodies and I fall forward into their mass. Deprived of sight, I imagine where I am - it is a pit filled with them. Hundreds - perhaps thousands of them.

Things happen so fast now.

My body slithers into their midst and I am drawn into the mass of writhing warm flesh. Their tentacles find me - no thick probes to fuck me this time, just tentacles reaching to feed on a willing sacrifice. They slither over my skin and find my orifices ... my sex into my uterus, my anus into my bowels, my urethra into my bladder, my mouth down my gullet and yes, even my nostrils.

I writhe amongst them as they writhe inside me. Feeding on me.

I am no longer tired.

But I am lost.