On the Wall
The faint sounds of car engine and honking from above seeped through the thick layer of concrete. It had been a while since the last time Liam set foot on Cowper Streetâ or under it. Which was not that unusual: some parts of the city hadnât been friendly to pedestrians since forever, and they would continue to be that way for years to come. Liam wouldâve also gone some other route if his car didnât break down that morning and circling around this subway to reach the tram stop would cost him another 15 minutes.
Dim outdoor light slowly gave in to a moodier one. Fixtures hanging where each wall met the ceiling illuminated the path, while patches of darkness sat broodingly in the corner. In a volatile and uncertain world, itâs lovely and delightful in a way to see that some things hadnât changed much. This tunnel was one of those.
Smelly, dirty, full of graffiti, walkable.
A statistical breakdown of the areaâs recent notable events would indicate that thereâs nothing objectively dangerous about this place, and the worst thing that could happen would be an occasional encounter with a benign yob. Still, to Liam, there existed a riskâ one of hygienic nature. A man strutting in a spotless navy-blue suit and highly-polished pair of black Oxfords, were mishap to befall him, would expose himself to certain odours that any business-minded people awaiting him at his destination will scoff at upon sensing even the slightest hint of their presence. In the best-case scenario, Liam just needed to stay away from any suspicious puddle or unidentified mass. But what if that misfortune manifested in the form of a stinky local delinquent?
Thankfully for Liam, it was a gloomy day, and, tried as he might, he could not spot any human figure within his line of sight.
As his footsteps echoed through the walkway, he had the feeling that he was being watched.
âOi, ladâ, an energetic voice boomed somewhere to his left. Â
A sigh escaped his mouth. Thatâs his signal to keep going. That intonation, in this kind of place, built up in his mind a certain image, and struck his psyche with a certain feeling.
Not the best kind.
Liam liked to rely on stereotypes and put people into boxes, and this had often earned him uninvited snide remarks about his moral standing amongst friends. Habitually he would just reassure himself, just like in this very moment, that there was nothing questionable about his character if the people to whom he mentally assigned unpleasant descriptions all turned out to be unpleasant. And he was sure for whomever that just uttered those two syllables, that would be true as well.
He kept on walking. Or to be precise, he kept on maintaining the façade that he was walking. To any bystander, the speed at which he was lifting up and stomping down his glossy shoes resembled more that of an exhausted jogger about to finish his run. His number one rule in dealing with these types of interaction was to reduce the number of encounters to zero. And that meant getting away from this place as soon as possible. Â
And then, he stopped.
Strange ⌠where did that come from? He thought.
When he entered the tunnel, there was nobody there. Up until the point when he heard that voice, his feet were the only source of all possible sounds. Of course, there was the occasional rustling of a kebab wrapper that someone had probably left behind after devouring the content inside an hour ago. But still, that didnât explain Liamâs befuddlement.
He looked back.
No one was behind him, and no one was in front of him, either. Discreet was not what Liam would usually describe this type of people.
âOiâ. That annoying voice again, this time right to his left â almost like its source was standing next to him. As morbid curiosity claimed victory over his avoidance tendency, he turned his head, ready to be greeted by whatever surprise that awaited him. Â Â
⌠A painting?
Caught in the centre of Liamâs vision, on the graffiti-filled wall that had seen better days, was a man. A painting of one. Heâs probably the same age as Liam, albeit taller and not as formally dressed. His body was covered in grey. Grey hoodie, grey sweatpants, grey Nike Air Max. The lighting and the rust on the wall had also made the off-white colour of the Stella Artois can held in his hand turn a darker grey, leaving the tiny, barely-visible red part of the emblem the only object of this painting that was not something in between black and white.
Wow, he really does look like what Iâve expected him to be. Bemused Liam.
He must admit, whoever had made this piece deserved all of his admiration. The painting looked almost like a real person. The grey colour buried amongst thousands of other vibrant, eye-catching blobs and lines nearby hid it away from his perception â the reason why he didnât notice it right away. Every detail was immaculate, from the texture of his clothes, the contour of his bulging muscles, the toothy grin to the veins on his hands and even faint shadow showcasing whatâs he got to show down under.
He stepped closer to the wall and, instinctively, looked around the painting for any camera, any teeny tiny devices that someone probably had planted to spook him and film his reaction. Maybe a whole content-creating team had tinkered with this part of the subway in hope of capturing a viral moment where a clueless corporate bloke screamed upon sighting a hyper-realistic painting of a beefy yob. It was the most plausible explanation Liam could think of. Â
He looked up, down, left, right, front, back.
Nothing was found, neither had nobody jumped out to say that he had been pranked.
Weird.
Now that he'd spent some more effort to put his brain to use, the situation appeared even more unusual. Heâd never considered himself a connoisseur in street arts, but enough exposure to it had acquainted him with its most typical expressions â ugly tags, political messages sometimes sprinkled with a touch of racism and football references from the obscure to the obvious. The conspiracy theorist part of him would say that this was definitely an ad, either for the shoes or the beer, but that begged the question, why the bloke in the middle? He didn't look like any famous person that Liam knew, and Liam knew quite a few. This was not some high-traffic touristy city, surely even pranksters would find no pleasure giving this third-rate hellhole their attention. Â Â
He reached out his hand to feel the painting, right where the ladâs chest was. Not exactly flat, warm to the touch, and slightly smelly. The smell of cheap beer and body odour. Liam felt vindicated. Someone really was here just a moment ago.
The moment Liamâs fingers stopped at the tracksuitâs sleeve, an invisible force pulled him in, sealing his arm shut. The stench of stale sweat and alcohol wafted up his nose, and he heard an impish laugh bellowing out of the surface inches away from him â the painting came to life, and on the other side of the wall, Liam could feel his hand being held tightly in the beefy ladâs grip.
âOi, calm it, yeah? Itâs not gonna hurt.â
Liamâs head was racing. The situation left him no clue on how to react. If he had had a first thought, it would have been to blurt out âwhat the fuckâ, and then scream for help as loud as possible. But there was no thought in his head, and his body acted like on autopilot. Reflexively, he tried to break free, but his effort was in vain. The mismatch between his strength and his captorâs aside, whatever substance surrounding his arm seemed to be semi-liquidâ a very dense one that voided any chance of him manoeuvring around to put his body in a better counterattack position. He raised one leg in attempt to kick the other man in the balls, or just simply to get himself off and out of this sticky situation. But his opponent was quicker, grasping Liamâs foot in a split second, and pulled it into the wall with lightning speed.
âSound move, posh lad. Why didnât ya answer when I called?â, said the voice from inside the wall. The concrete and paint next to Liam turned semi-translucent, then a round lump started to bulge out from it. The surface broke up, and the other maleâs head emerged out of it to let out a loud, cheeky laugh. The substance coating his head receded back into the wall shortly after.
With both hand and leg trapped, the well-built man quickly pulled Liam in, and, with remarkable strength, pulled the latter hard to his right side, thereby turning Liam around to face the opposite wall. Liamâs lower body had been almost subsumed into the painting, with only the tips of his shoes still jugging out. His upper half was suspended in an odd angle, where his hands were still stuck behind but chest, and stomach were free to lean forward, leaving his head slightly farther away from the wall than his torso. Â
âLet me out. Please. I havenât done anything to youâ, Liam begged frantically.
âá´á´ęąĘ, Ęá´á´ .â
Liamâs body shuddered. The word reached his ears with such deafening intensity that limbs went into panic mode, the kind that shut them all down instead of jolting them all up with electrical craze to go all-in for a fight-or-flight response. Not the kind of loud sound that blasted by some giant speaker to make you deaf, but echoing, reverberating, first to his ears, then to his psyche. He felt as though the weight of all the concrete around and above him had condensed together to lend power to that thundering command. It clapped his eardrums and struck down his psychological resistance into pieces. His mind went blank, and his movements enfeebled.
The ladâs head sticked out some more, so that it was on the same level as Liamâs. For the first time, the latter had a close look at the young man. Patchy moustache, face flushed, thick neck, prominent Adamâs apple. Emanating from him was an aura of caricatural masculinity â strapping, simple-minded, but in an endearing way. There was not even a crumb of malice coming from him, likely the consequence of being airheaded.
âDonât get shy now, pretty lad. Youâll like it in a sec!â, the lad said while looked at him with beaming eyes. The other manâs hot breath laced with of alcohol glided on his face and assaulted his nostril. Liam couldnât help but to breathe it in. The sloshedness was contagious, and seconds later, Liamâs mind was already in a new state. Liam looked into his glinting eyes, and the infectious fervour flowed back into him, soon also reflected in his eyes.
Ęá´Ęá´xá´á´ .
âYâalright there, posh lad?â, boasted the lad enthusiastically, wrapping his big sweaty arm around Liam. His tipsy breath continued to invade Liamâs nose, but it was enhanced by another smell â the stench of the lad rank, sweaty armpit. Bare and pure, undeodorized, accumulated from years of toiling labour, gruelling work-out and dirt-cheap fast food, suffocating Liam with testosterone. As Liam drew in his concentrated signature scent, his mind had lost its last battle against the foreign dominant personality that was breaching into his head. His brain had turned into mush, and his innermost self was now nothing but a malleable mass, ready to be reshaped into something better.
He let out a dopey grin not so different from the hunky lad.
âSoundâ. Â
His words were already slurring.
âFucking soundâ, he repeated.
âAye, thatâs more like it.â
The lad pulled Liam forward into a kiss. The bigger man made quick work of Liamâs tops, and in a matter of seconds his torso was already bare for the wind to caress. Once again, the strange material swelled and budged, and Liam could feel dampness and heat inches away right behind him. Soon, the gap was closed as wall of sweat and muscles slowly pressed against him, and Liam could feel the formerâs growing member sliding along his ass crack. Massive, oozing.
Hand in hand, Liamâs arm was dragged out of the wall to the front, laying gently on his navel. The lad pressed hard against it, and his flesh sank into Liamâs own. His tiny office-worker hand was being consumed by the heftier, stronger one. For a short while, Liam felt like that hand was his. He felt his own digits getting bigger, rougher, tougher, burlier. He felt the itchiness on the back of his hand as a lotus tattoo slowly appeared on it. But that sensation soon stopped, and he was disappointed. He wanted more. He pressed hand arm back against the ladâs, and was rewarded with that hit of ecstasy again. His forearm thickened up with muscle, and hair started to sprout on across its length. His bicep soon followed through, ballooning to a size that far surpassed that of his puny neck. And the high, just as it came, shortly disappeared. His hand and arm were moving on its own. They had become the ladâs hand and arm, which had just begun to fondle his belly. It felt good, but not as good as before. He would give anything to reach that state again.
The ladâs other arm shot out of the wall, in its grip the beer can from earlier. He quickly transferred it to his left hand. The cold spread from the lad bulky arm up to Liamâs shoulder.
âDown itâ, the lad said, patting Liamâs belly. He then promptly raised the beer can to Liamâs mouth.
Yes. He needed to gulp down his dissatisfaction. It didnât register to him that he was being commanded. How could that be a command, if he himself had already think of it just a moment ago? It was as if he had just reunited with his best friend whom he hadnât met for years, and they were on the same wavelength again. His friend understood exactly what he really needed.
In synergy with the ladâs hand movement, Liam guzzled half the content of the can. The cold froze his brain, and he hung his mouth agape, only for the lad to lean up and charge in with his tongue. Their hairy merged hand explored his body. Calluses reigned over his chest, stomach, and meaty palm caressed his growing bulge. The other hand unfastened his belt, then unbuttoned his trouser, and slid his pants down. As his clothing came into contact with the substance inside the wall, Liam felt every tiny inch of them being pulled away from his skin, as though the wall had disintegrated them, until nothing could be felt around his legs and ankles anymore.
The lad pulled Liamâs other hand out of the wall along with his, and began to feel up Liamâs package.
âHeh⌠decent cock, thatâ, said the lad playfully.
As the ladâs fingers interlocked with Liamâs, the latter once again descended into mania. Giving upâ no, sharing his hand and arm with the lad, feeling them explode with muscle and imbued with his intoxicating scent, until the numbness settled, as the lad took control of his remaining arm. Now two mighty hands connected to his shoulders were touching every part of his body, and he was in heaven.
The lad held up the beer can again, and downed the rest of its content. A clanking sound reverberated through the tunnel as he hurled the empty can away. They kissed. Some amount of beer still left in the ladâs mouth sloshed into Liamâs. Itâs lukewarm now, and mixed with his spit. Liam swallowed all of it, moaning softly as more of the ladâs essence penetrated his throat. The ladâs cock had reached full mast, and was dripping profusely on Liamâs rear, enough to form a puddle on the ground had they not been half-contained inside a wall.
One of the ladâs hands had moved behind Liam, smearing and spreading the natural lube into his hole, working it up for a grand entrance. With his other hand, he put two fingers inside Liamâs mouth. The latter eagerly suckled on them, and the lad promptly placed his digits, wetted with saliva, inside Liamâs cavity. It was a bizarre feeling. He was aware that he exerted no control over the hands that were tinkering with his pucker and spreading his cheeks, except that were connected to his shoulders, and from that angle it did look like he was playing and fingering his own bum. Every time their merged limbs touched his body, there was a brief moment where he could also sense them, as if they were still his own, and it made his brain go crazy, but soon the sensation would stop. And his mind would be screaming for more.
âYeah, our arseâs gonna look mintâ, exclaimed the lad. Liam could only reply with a loud, needy moan.
And the lad went all in.
Pleasure coursed through Liamâs veins. His body was opening up, literally and metaphorically. The lad was pouring into him, and he was becoming the lad. He was drunk. Drunk from pleasure, from cans of cheap beer, from undiluted masculinity, from the courage he had just gained to give up, and from the bliss of giving up itself â his life, his worries, his thoughts, his very own identity. Everything that was his, would soon belong the ladâs. They would share everything in this word together.
The two men moaned loudly in tandem, voices practically indistinguishable from each other. There was no delay between vocalisations, as if all regulated by one source. Each man spotted a dumb, blissful grin on their face. Their combined hands stroked the man in the frontâs cock, cupping and fondling his balls.
As the lad pushed in more and more, that feeling came to Liam again. More intense. More spread out. More rapid. His chest had turned into two hairy mounds of muscles, and once more an itch spread across one pec as a tattoo of a scorpion emerged on its surface.
the lad hastened his pace, ramming up Liamâs rear with increasing speed and strength. He dug his giant, stinky feet into Liamâs petite soles, and the latter felt his own body stretching out and up to accommodate its new mass and height.
The ladâs voice was no longer behind him, but all around him and inside. It had become his own voice, booming out of his expanded voice box, bumping up and down his giant Adamâs apple every time they moaned.
Only Liamâs head and pelvis remained unfused. And he was so desperate for it. He could feel, against all physical possibilities, the ladâs cock reaching closer and closer to his cock, and the ladâs face somewhere next to his face. Not behind, not in front, just ⌠there. Ready to share and be shared.
Then the lad became him. He screamed. And came.
His limbs were set free. His balls were churning hard. They drooped and swelled, unfazed by the amount of sperm exiting his body, as though ready to resupply him with billions more. They kept tugging at his crotch while euphoria was seizing his body.
Ropes of cum shot out of his cock that was growing with no sign of stopping. He continued to stroke it. His glorious, colossal cock, hefty and heavy in his meaty hands coated the ground with his essence.
ââââââââââââââââââ
âLiamâ stood in front of an oddly-shaped patch of wall, sweaty and breathing heavily.
Beneath him, a thick puddle of cum glistened in the light.
His hand dipped into the wall, and pulled out a pair of grey trackies, dirty from grime and stained, possibly from a combination of potent bodily fluids. âHeh⌠gonna need a proper clean after thisâ. He quickly donned the pair, struggling somewhat to properly place his dripping monster cock and jumbo balls inside them, as, the lack of undies aside, the article of clothing obviously wasnât made to accommodate his size.
Next came a pair of supposedly white socks. Their soles were nigh blackened, and a funky stench emitted from the cloth. His trainers, in contrast, looked relatively new.
Liam was about to reach for something else, when a loud, long and obnoxious burp escaped his mouth.
âFuck me, whyâs it boiling in here?â
He darted his eyes around, then grinned mischievously.
Trackies pulled down, his cock, hard and wet with both pre and cum, let out a stream of yellow liquid onto the strange wall.
âFuckinâ rightâ, he said with an exaggerated moaning.
It took a long while for his bladder to finish the alcohol-induced number one. By then his cock had gone semi-soft. He gave it a nice shake, and pulled it back inside. The oversized member left behind a tiny wet spot on the already dirty article of clothing.
He departed, leaving behind the thoroughly desecrated tunnel with its graffiti wall.
Some days later, the city maintenance workers came over to clean up the place. The sun had evaporated the most noticeable parts of the battlefield, only a distinctive smell remained. A worker bent over to pick up an empty beer can.
On the wall in front of him, a peculiar image stood out. The area untouched by paint and dirt seemed to take the shape of a man ...
... at whose feet lied a crumpled pile of clothes.
