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low and mean and sinister/hard and fast and screaming/deep inside and threatening

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STATEMENT OF: [full name] Will Heighbury

STATEMENT TAKEN: [d/m/y] 7th August, 2019

STATEMENT REGARDING: [short description] A room full of A weird room of Meat gloryholes. I don't know how else to say it. It was meat gloryholes. It's a bit humilia embarassing.

INCIDENT DATE: [exact/approx./n/a (delete as appropriate)] June/July, maybe, some time last year?


I've been told to sit here and write it down. I don't think the Archival assistant I saw wanted to put up with my stammering much longer. She was very forthright; and I know saying this out loud would have made me look like some fucking pervert here for kicks.

But what else am I meant to do?

Confidently declare, "I paid for entry into a room full of meat gloryholes and I came so hard because it was hot but also really frightening", and expect to be believed?

It's not exactly something you discuss over a cup of tea.


A feeling of intrusion. That's the first thought that makes its way through Jon's mind, as stuffed with cotton wool as it feels.

Jon is groggy - another sense of intrusion, of something wrong, of waking up to finding the regular boundaries and limits of his body out-of-bounds completely, his head pushed in directions and his body pulled into shapes that normally, he wouldn't even approach. A feeling of is that safe? Of am I safe?

Of what will happen if I move too far? Of  what will happen if I push too fast?

It's a wrong feeling. He's not fully conscious, but he's conscious enough to feel like a ball that's been accidentally pitched onto the edge of a cliff. If it'll crumble, or stay strong under his weight is a question he doesn't have the answer to - he's not even been put there by choice, instead dumped unceremoniously and left to fend for himself.

Jon registers next that he seems to be suspended, somehow.

He's never been suspended before, but if he had been, he'd imagine that it would have felt very different to this. His body - his joints - feel off, that's what the underlying thread of panic is, the one that's felt stitched through every joint since he woke up. At uni, Jon had casually looked into shibari, just for a friend, out of curiosity, really, when he'd actually had normal, regular human relationships. He can just about picture what most regular ties achieve - suspending the body through a series of spread-out knots, none designed to anchor on at key points in the body that would cut off circulation.

He doesn't remember a lot. But what he does register is that the two points which should be in pain right now - the ropes pressing in at both sides of his neck, the two looped around the top of each thigh, next to the groin - don't feel as though they are.

Instead, they feel...elastic. Stretchy, even, not in pain at all. Slightly more closed-in than they should be, closed in around his body, internally, closed in around...what feels like taut, empty space.

As though the supporting structures aren't there any more. As though bits of them have been removed from the inside.


Sorry if this is all a bit much. I figured there's no use beating around the bush, but there's no other way to get this down than put enough detail in to be believed.

So, yeah, this would have been, what, maybe last year? I'm not going to lay out my whole sexual history for you, and there's no way I'm telling you how I got into this. As fucked up as it is, the contact I found this, uh, experience through, they're great for other things. I honestly just think they had a bad tip-off. I don't think they were trying to fuck me over. I'd hope they weren't trying to fuck me over.

And I mean, it's hard, right, genuinely hard - and that's no pun intended - to find good, safe kink experiences in the UK. I'm not stupid, I know the law, even though it's very dumb, and how I could, technically, be arrested for all of this shit.

But. I mean. I'm not gonna stop being kinky just because the cops can't imagine someone being whipped for fun. If anything, you'd think they'd understand. Excessive force and getting off on someone else's pain? At least I do it consensually.

So when I heard about this kink night, down in London, I thought I'd make a go of it. A bit out of my usual ballpark, mind, but it's not like there's much to go on in the Midlands. Just a lot of threesomes with couples whose idea of a fun time is mutually exclusive with the concept of safewords.

No, this was gonna be the real deal; a room full of gloryholes, all willing and consenting, ready for some anonymous, free-use fun. I kinda cycle through a lot of fetishes, but free-use, that's my main one.

Even though it's a weird legal area, I've always been oddly confident with getting into these sorts of things. I think riding the line between horrifying and thrilling is part of it for me; that feeling of uncertainty, of not seeing the drop and choosing to fall.

I bought a ticket down to London, packed my bags, and that was that. It was gonna be a fun, no-questions-asked adventure.

My mistake. My big, fucking mistake.


As Jon wakes up further - and it doesn't take much, the fear drags him upwards like a ship straining out of water in the middle of an ocean storm - his subconscious, trying to move and shift, takes stock of three new things: where he is, why his body feels so weird, and what he's doing.

The answers to these questions are don't know, don't know and don't know. He can't see much through the thin black blindfold wrapped numerous times around his face - he seems to be in a small, doorless room, walls covered with dark planks, harsh lighting coming somewhere from above. He notes there are, it seems, two large, identical, round holes in each roughly the same level as his eyesight. Nothing is visible beyond any of them, despite the cruel, harsh lights blazing down above him.

He's surrounded, it feels, by warm air that's slightly off, completely empty, and it makes him shiver, which makes his position, his body, feel even worse, as the panic sets in like rot and permeates his senses and impulses.

He's being kept up by strong damp ropes. Only they're smooth. If he had to guess, and he does, the image to pick would be grey-purple intestines with a mind and muscles of their own. He's not sure what that says about how far gone is general frame of reference is, nor about how easily he accepts it.

Smooth ropes. Ropes smooth against his - he registers fully, with a blushing panic - entirely naked body, just brushing his small cock, hanging straight down to a floor he can't see. Jon panics at the thought of a very, very long drop below him, and whines when he *knows*, just barely, that it's entirely true. There's nothing underneath him, there's nothing to break his fall other than the promise of the Eye roaring against anything other than *itself* taking its pupil, and there's nothing for Jon to put his trust in, other than the ungodly lengths of hell-knows-what straining to keep him in place.

Jon realises these ropes run around his neck, either side of his groin, armpits, shins, elbows and wrists, suspending him from some point above him he can't see - and unbidden, a diagram of the points someone isn't meant to be suspended from comes to mind, a diagram that hits every body part with a rope around it right now. Worse than that is that they don't hurt.

They should be unbearably tight - they're not. At the points where they dig in, they seem to simply sink into his flesh, harmlessly and with little discomfort, other than the mental discomfort of his naked body held intact only with ropes he can barely see, suspended from a point he prays is strong.

More than that - he can barely think, just only barely, little enough to act like little more than a collar with a very short chain on. Usually, access to the gaze of the ceaseless watcher is as effective as 4G, present pretty much everywhere, but the more conscious he is, the greater the clarity of some big, mental blanket of cotton wool becomes.

Every time he tries to reach out, he feels as tied down as the odd ropes he strains against. He doesn't stop trying, but just like the Buried, with every stretch, every strain of his body, the thoughts running through his head are reduced to the panicked alarms of the bleating animal he's slowly, oh so slowly, descending into.


I got the basics of what was happening - I use a disposable phone for this kind of thing, and at 4pm on a Thursday, I got a text on it with the date of the event, the address, and the time it was happening. Two nights; I'd come down on the Thursday evening, spend Friday getting ready for it, go home on the Saturday. Nothing else, but I figured I'd wear something I didn't mind getting someone else's cum on, and take a few changes of clothes as well.

I booked a hotel, not that it mattered. Soon as I'd got settled in - door locked, shoes off - I thought I'd spend the rest of the evening doing all the shit you can't do in a flat for fear of losing your deposit. I might be into free-use, but let's just say a bit of watersports never hurt anything but the dry cleaning bills.

But no. Literally as soon as I'd taken my cock out of my jeans to piss all over my chest, the bed and the carpet, I got a text.

Date changed. 8pm tonight. One night only. Be there or don't.

I groaned and tucked myself back in, but I got over it quickly enough - the uncertainty of it all was really doing it for me. I was basically hard for the entire cab ride over, even though I was still desperate to piss. The driver took so long to find the address - a seedy-looking industrial estate - that I almost softened up a bit, and ended up wetting just a little, cock straining against the now-damp spot positioned just over the tip of my hard-on, leg bouncing up and down in desperation.

The minute we parked up, though, I was stiff and aching to cum once again, pushing obviously up against my grey jogging bottoms. I paid him - cash only - and, hands in the front of my jacket pocket, stroking my cock - quivering with excitement, fear and desperation - I got out, ready for the time of my life.


Not knowing where he is scares him. Being unable to
know, and know where he is, scares Jon even more.

Having his senses come back effectively blank makes him feel as new and scared as the very first time he ran into something he didn't understand - something he didn't know how to process, all those years ago in his first term as Archivist.

It's the same feeling of standing before something much, much larger than him, unable to do anything but stand still, panic, and stare; absolutely paralysing fear.

Managing to wrangle some conscious thought, he decides before the words have even formed in his head to take stock of his senses, muddied though they are;

touch, sight, hearing, smell, taste

Touch is one he's already covered, not that it helped him; he's naked, there's warm, smooth, things (he doesn't think they are ropes) holding him suspended from a ceiling, somewhere, and his body feels off against whatever is holding him. His hips feel just about too wide, but his groin somehow feels tighter in its centre; and where there should be bone, where his joints should be aching at the angle his legs are pulled back in, there's nothing but tight discomfort as he's bound and held in place.

Sight; nothing of use. A long, sheer drop below him. Three small, wood-plank walls in front of him, two large, round holes, roughly eye-level, in each, leading off into more darkness. Body not visible - not at this angle, head pointed straight ahead, completely horizontal while the rest of him sits on a 45° slant.

Hearing; now there's an odd one. There is nothing. He must be in a completely dead space, because his breath is loud and flat in his ears, no echo at all. Nothing but that and the odd squelching noises the ropes make as he shifts and moves.

The room smells, as he warms up, like warm, raw meat. It's not a pleasant smell.

Wait... raw meat. Meat.

Oh, God.

Realisation drops into Jon's mind like a twig snapping.

He tries screaming, but he's not even finished the word help, before something smooth snakes along his jaw - two somethings, then three. The room is getting warmer, hot, even, but the tendrils feel like cold dead flesh, just the wrong side of slick and shivery the make Jon recoil as they pool into his mouth, pulling it open at both sides.

The single, greyish-purple tendril left wraps lazily around his throat, once, twice, before coming to face Jon, poised opposite from him like a snake about to strike. He can't see much from the blindfold, but he just about sees a small, slit-like opening on its almost rounded, smoothed head.

He definitely sees it dripping a viscous, gooey white liquid, and he moans out of fear and anticipation, feeling his small, flaccid cock betray him and stir at this absurd facsimile of a penis in front of his eyes.

He doesn't even have the chance to scream before it jumps onto his face - fills his mouth - then his throat - and then, sickeningly, carefully, begins to pulsate its way down, down, down his gullet. There's no room to even gag.

Jon's eyes roll into the back of his head as the fleshy limb spears him through, throat to now-stiff, still-small cock, and loses consciousness as the rapidly-thickening tendril opens, and pumps gallons of fluid straight into his stomach.

Later, Jon will wonder what exactly happened next. What words Jared might have spoken, for it is Jared Hopworth behind him now, he knows it, that would've explained how all the nerves robbed from the flesh so cruelly stabbed and punctured through with hooks could possibly have been taken and re-arranged around his groin -

- and later, as he'll find out, much of his internal central column.


"Let me make one thing clear, Jon," a heavy, thumping voice sounded from behind him. If he'd been able to jump, he would've; he didn't, wasn't able to, couldn't, might never do again, so his eyes merely widened, as if that would help, as if the wider they stretched, the more they'd do something. A classic, stupid and basic fear response, not even a helpful one in a situation like this, like taking a gulp of cold air when plunged into a river full of ice, something primordial.

Jon's sure it had a use when it first appeared in human beings. Jon's sure he isn't human any more, and what's less, is that he isn't sure anything he could come up with now would help at all.

"I'm not here to punish you. I'm revile you. To remake you. I will take, whatever I need out of you, put whatever I need to put into you into you, and I will enjoy it when you scream. If I hated you, you would've been meat for the fire, years ago."

Jon feels a crude approximation of a hand stroke down his rump. He's too wired, nerves firing too blindly even to really stop and concentrate on the exact number of digits touching his body like so much flesh. He's sure it wouldn't be more than eight or less than three if he really thought about it. If he'd had the ability to think at the time.

"But as it stands, you're too valuable to me. Not valuable, but...too..." Jared stopped momentarily, even stopping his hand in place, nothing even close to relief hanging in suspense as Jon stills in his position.


"My perfect hunk of meat. Bony, but with so much potential."

Jon feels, rather than hears, a deep, grumbling purr against his ass, a hand forming, moulding, purring in its manipulations in time to those of its owner.

He feels the...hand, he supposes in a stab of a thought, trail down to between his legs.

Then it squeezes hard.

"You will worship me, Jon. I'm gonna take you from the Eye..."

The hand travels up. Meets the top of his thigh, digs in roughly.

"...reshape you, remould you in my image..."

Another of Jared's hands comes up, mirrors the one on his right thigh in an identical expression of force and ownership on his left.

"...and you will worship me."