Claustrophilia: my gay necro torture porn novel

Ezrablake

NewbieX
Up for preorder now, officially released Halloween 2018.

It’s about a wannabe necrophiliac who wasn’t planning to go through with his fantasies until he was kidnapped by an infamous serial killer, locked in a tiny box, and subjected to some of the most horrific torture you’ll find in any written work. You can read some reviews, watch the book trailer, and preorder on my site.

This is a severely misguided passion project. I don’t expect to sell many copies, but if you’re as fucked up as me, maybe you’ll enjoy it. Necrophilia, cannibalism, snuff...I’ve been banned from Amazon already, and the book hasn’t even been released yet.

If you like Dennis Cooper or Poppy Z Brite’s darker work, this might be up your alley. Some graphic gay shit goes down in Claustrophilia, mostly with corpses, but it’s not necessarily intended to be erotic. It’s...horror, I guess? If you jerk off to it, that’s your problem.

This is well beyond transgressive fiction. I can’t stress that enough.
 

MATAMUERTOS

грибной суп
can you give us at least a paragraph of this book, as a teaser. it's always useful to see if the writing is alluring or not.
anyone can write a synopsis. i'm dead serious, not trolling you. btw.
I saw a video of a chicken playing an opera on the piano today, at first glance one would think; that's fucking genius .
Then i noticed that the keys lit up for the chicken to peck...just a crazy thing i just thought of for some reason.
 
Last edited:

nola

Forum Veteran
can you give us at least a paragraph of this book, as a teaser. it's always useful to see if the writing is alluring or not.
anyone can write a synopsis. i'm dead serious, not trolling you. btw.
I saw a video of a chicken playing an opera on the piano today, at first glance one would think,; that's fucking genius .
Then i noticed that the keys lit up for he chicken to peck...just a crazy thing i just thought of for some reason.
 

guyme91 📦🔓

Kinky weirdo ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
I have claustrophilia, in fact just last night I was inside my box jerking off. I've read hundreds of stories, mostly on Gromet's Plaza and I've even written a few myself. You might want to join there and see if they will let you advertise there as well. Maybe even post the first chapter for free to entice people.
 
OP
Ezrablake

Ezrablake

NewbieX
Sure thing! Here are the first few scenes (I’d format a pdf, but I’m on mobile.)


Chris wakes up alone, crying, in the dark.

He can't move his arms or legs. He can't move anything. All around him is this inexplicable, unrelenting pressure. It makes his bones ache and crushes his lungs to half capacity at best—and he should breathe, focus on breathing, but every bit of hard-won air tears from his throat in a terrified, broken scream.

Is he dreaming? Is he paralyzed? Is he dead?

His fingers twitch. Not paralysis. His surroundings are black. It's an oppressive darkness, close, engulfing him. That, or he's blind. It’s possible—likely, even.

He’s ravaged by bone-deep fatigue; his back cramps, and his hamstrings are so tight they’d probably ring like piano keys if struck. His legs shouldn't bend this way.

Chris's screams taper off into tortured sobs as the reality of the situation dawns on him. He's trapped in some sort of container, glass or thick plastic surrounding him on all sides. It's hard to tell because it's all warm from his body heat and getting warmer with every minute of panic. He's naked. He doesn't know why that didn't register earlier, but it adds a new, profane dimension to what is already the worst nightmare he’s ever had.

How did he get here? The last thing he remembers is checking the temperature of the terrarium last night—no, brushing his teeth. He remembers that, remembers drinking a nightcap, and then nothing. Darkness.

No matter how he twists the facts into rationalizations, his mind circles back to the savage horror of his situation. This box is tiny. There's barely enough space to draw breath between his contorted limbs. Someone stuffed him in here. Someone stretched his legs into this position, or else the tendons behind his knees would have torn to shreds.

Chris doesn't have these brutal, life-or-death panic attacks often, but he can't stop it from happening. That's the worst part; he knows it's happening but he can't do anything about it. There's not enough fucking air in this box. Blood pounds through every vessel in his body. His ribs ache, his lungs burn, his face goes numb, and the harder he breathes, the worse it gets.

Tears drip onto his belly, leaving behind itchy salt deposits as they evaporate. Each one adds to the pressure in the box, taking up the precious space his body needs to occupy. It's hell. His brain is boiling in his skull, short circuiting as he slowly goes mad.

He's on the verge of passing out, but with his precious breath he screams the only name his frantic mind can conjure:

“Ivan! IVAN! HELP!”

He screams until his throat is raw, until his screams turn to soft whimpers and then to nothing at all. He slips into blissful unconsciousness.

* * *

“A regularity,” Jim repeats, frowning.

“Her heart weighed three hundred and ten grams exactly,” says Chris, clicking his pen. “Her liver was one point five four kilos. Her kidneys? One twenty-five grams a piece. And her lungs were missing. So were her legs, amputated at the knee.” He pushes his thick, white-rimmed glasses up his face and raises his eyebrows at Jim, waiting to be congratulated for an astute observation.

“You’re gonna have to walk me through this.”

“Gloria is perfect.” He clicks and unclicks his pen. “I mean, she was symmetrical. Incredibly symmetrical, down to the millimeter, and her insides are like that too. I’ve been in this field for eight years, Jim, and I’ve never seen guts like hers. She’s a living anatomy textbook.”

Click. Click.

“Well. Dead, now.”

Click click click.

“Can you stop that?” Jim asks, unfolding his massive frame from the chair, which, in comparison, looks like it was built for a kindergartener.

“What? Oh, sorry. Sorry.” Chris sets his pen on the desk and brushes his sandy, unkempt hair out of his eyes. “But it’s weird, Jim. He inflicted perfect wounds, too, like he didn’t want to spoil the symmetry. He must have known somehow, must have—I don’t know—seen her face and extrapolated. Do you want me to show you? She’s still on the table.”

“No thanks,” says Jim. “I need to get back to the office. Just to be clear, this is everything you needed to tell me?”

“Uh.” His hand twitches toward the pen, but he stops himself. “I just thought there might be a reason he was drawn to someone with perfect organs.”

“A reason. Such as?”

Jim is nearly seven feet tall, and Chris’s mind always blanks when he’s looming like that.

“I don’t know,” Chris says.

“Alright. Well, thanks for the tip.” Jim smiles, the way men smile at panhandlers when their own pockets are empty. “And Chris,” he adds, “just call me, next time.”

* * *

He drags himself to class. Even though Anatomy II is the only subject he’s passing without assistance, he can’t work up much enthusiasm. Every student here is at least ten years younger than him, and when he graduates—if he graduates—he’ll have a quarter million dollars in debt, and Jim still won’t take him seriously. He was so thrilled by the prospect of attending Brown University’s renowned medical school that he never stopped to consider whether or not it was a good idea.

Chris ruminates until Ivan Skinner takes the podium. It’s his week to lecture. In all the excitement of his incredible, useless insight into the Butcher case, he completely forgot.

He met Doctor Skinner at the beginning of first semester, when he still had room in his brain for names and faces. Ivan is...striking, to say the least. Though he must be in his fifties, he’s somehow retained his shocking red hair. His freckles don’t make him look boyish. He wears them with pride, and he knows how to dress, or overdress, for his coloring. A three piece suit under his lab coat, every goddamn day. Chris could never pull that off.

Ivan Skinner is also his new academic advisor, since the last one, Doctor Sylvia, had a nervous breakdown and left without warning in the middle of the night. He should have been piss-your-pants, run-for-the-hills intimidated, because even other doctors are intimidated by Ivan. He would have been, under any other circumstances—but Chris was failing general pathology, and fully intended to drop out at the time of their first meeting. Nothing to lose.

So when Ivan says, “Mr. Dour, please sit down,” Chris sits in the graduate assistants’ chair, at the corner of the desk, instead of the chair by the door where first year bitches are supposed to sit.

That’s how he sees the drawings.

They’re peeking out of the topmost drawer—standard anatomical sketches, to an untrained eye. But Chris is trained. He catches the sensual curve of the serratus anterior, the shimmer of sweat on the unflayed pectoral muscle, and it’s only a hunch. It could be innocent.

Chris knows it isn’t.

“Your drawings are beautiful,” he says.

Doctor Skinner smiles. “It will take more flattery than that to improve your grade.”

“Sorry. I’m not trying to flatter you. I’ve just always admired—” he tears his eyes away from the sketch “—anatomy.”

“You work as a pathologist’s assistant, yes?”

“Uh, yeah. How’d you know that?”

“I read your file.”

“Huh.” Chris furrows his brow. “Well, respectfully, Doctor, I’m not looking for a lecture. I know going to med school while working was a mistake. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in months, and I’m going to drop out.”

He’s hoping for a frown, at least. Ivan is indifferent. “A costly mistake, but not uncommon,” he says. “I’ve had this conversation twice in the past week.” He glances at his gold watch. Chris doesn’t know much about watches, but can assume from context that it’s expensive. “That leaves us fifteen minutes. What would you like to discuss?”

“Really? You’re not going to try and stop me?”

“You’ve clearly made up your mind. You’re an adult, Christopher, more so than most of my students. You’re capable of making your own decisions.”

Chris leans back in his chair, which is actually identical to the bitches’ chair, and bites his lip.

“It’s not that I don’t want to become a doctor,” he says. “But Katherine put me on the Butcher case. She asked for me by name. I think she just felt sorry for me, but still, I can’t pass up an opportunity like that.”

“You see the case as offering more opportunity for career advancement than a medical degree?” Ivan isn’t looking at him. He’s writing something, but Chris can’t see what.

“I don’t know. Maybe. There’s a lot of value to be had in…” He glances at Ivan, and pauses just long enough to catch his gaze. “...hands-on experience.”

Ivan cocks his head, sets down his pen, and turns to face Chris with his whole body. He clasps his hands in his lap and leans forward. “I want to see you succeed,” he says. “It would be a shame to waste such passion.”

A shiver wracks Christopher’s body, and it takes concerted effort to remain still. Calm down. Don’t read too much into this.

“I don’t have time anymore,” Chris says. “You did it; you know how much work it is, even without a job. And the Butcher victims come first.”

“Their corpses come first.”

“Uh, yeah.”

Ivan smiles again, and each time is slightly more unsettling than the last. “Take one of the drawings home,” he says. “Choose your favorite.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I won’t allow you to drop out of medical school because you’re too interested in anatomy. You aren’t the first, and you certainly won’t be the last.”

Christopher’s mind is whirring. He gingerly removes the sheaf of paper from the desk drawer, but his eyes are fixed on Doctor Skinner. “The first what?” He asks.
 
Sure thing! Here are the first few scenes (I’d format a pdf, but I’m on mobile.)


Chris wakes up alone, crying, in the dark.

He can't move his arms or legs. He can't move anything. All around him is this inexplicable, unrelenting pressure. It makes his bones ache and crushes his lungs to half capacity at best—and he should breathe, focus on breathing, but every bit of hard-won air tears from his throat in a terrified, broken scream.

Is he dreaming? Is he paralyzed? Is he dead?

His fingers twitch. Not paralysis. His surroundings are black. It's an oppressive darkness, close, engulfing him. That, or he's blind. It’s possible—likely, even.

He’s ravaged by bone-deep fatigue; his back cramps, and his hamstrings are so tight they’d probably ring like piano keys if struck. His legs shouldn't bend this way.

Chris's screams taper off into tortured sobs as the reality of the situation dawns on him. He's trapped in some sort of container, glass or thick plastic surrounding him on all sides. It's hard to tell because it's all warm from his body heat and getting warmer with every minute of panic. He's naked. He doesn't know why that didn't register earlier, but it adds a new, profane dimension to what is already the worst nightmare he’s ever had.

How did he get here? The last thing he remembers is checking the temperature of the terrarium last night—no, brushing his teeth. He remembers that, remembers drinking a nightcap, and then nothing. Darkness.

No matter how he twists the facts into rationalizations, his mind circles back to the savage horror of his situation. This box is tiny. There's barely enough space to draw breath between his contorted limbs. Someone stuffed him in here. Someone stretched his legs into this position, or else the tendons behind his knees would have torn to shreds.

Chris doesn't have these brutal, life-or-death panic attacks often, but he can't stop it from happening. That's the worst part; he knows it's happening but he can't do anything about it. There's not enough fucking air in this box. Blood pounds through every vessel in his body. His ribs ache, his lungs burn, his face goes numb, and the harder he breathes, the worse it gets.

Tears drip onto his belly, leaving behind itchy salt deposits as they evaporate. Each one adds to the pressure in the box, taking up the precious space his body needs to occupy. It's hell. His brain is boiling in his skull, short circuiting as he slowly goes mad.

He's on the verge of passing out, but with his precious breath he screams the only name his frantic mind can conjure:

“Ivan! IVAN! HELP!”

He screams until his throat is raw, until his screams turn to soft whimpers and then to nothing at all. He slips into blissful unconsciousness.

* * *

“A regularity,” Jim repeats, frowning.

“Her heart weighed three hundred and ten grams exactly,” says Chris, clicking his pen. “Her liver was one point five four kilos. Her kidneys? One twenty-five grams a piece. And her lungs were missing. So were her legs, amputated at the knee.” He pushes his thick, white-rimmed glasses up his face and raises his eyebrows at Jim, waiting to be congratulated for an astute observation.

“You’re gonna have to walk me through this.”

“Gloria is perfect.” He clicks and unclicks his pen. “I mean, she was symmetrical. Incredibly symmetrical, down to the millimeter, and her insides are like that too. I’ve been in this field for eight years, Jim, and I’ve never seen guts like hers. She’s a living anatomy textbook.”

Click. Click.

“Well. Dead, now.”

Click click click.

“Can you stop that?” Jim asks, unfolding his massive frame from the chair, which, in comparison, looks like it was built for a kindergartener.

“What? Oh, sorry. Sorry.” Chris sets his pen on the desk and brushes his sandy, unkempt hair out of his eyes. “But it’s weird, Jim. He inflicted perfect wounds, too, like he didn’t want to spoil the symmetry. He must have known somehow, must have—I don’t know—seen her face and extrapolated. Do you want me to show you? She’s still on the table.”

“No thanks,” says Jim. “I need to get back to the office. Just to be clear, this is everything you needed to tell me?”

“Uh.” His hand twitches toward the pen, but he stops himself. “I just thought there might be a reason he was drawn to someone with perfect organs.”

“A reason. Such as?”

Jim is nearly seven feet tall, and Chris’s mind always blanks when he’s looming like that.

“I don’t know,” Chris says.

“Alright. Well, thanks for the tip.” Jim smiles, the way men smile at panhandlers when their own pockets are empty. “And Chris,” he adds, “just call me, next time.”

* * *

He drags himself to class. Even though Anatomy II is the only subject he’s passing without assistance, he can’t work up much enthusiasm. Every student here is at least ten years younger than him, and when he graduates—if he graduates—he’ll have a quarter million dollars in debt, and Jim still won’t take him seriously. He was so thrilled by the prospect of attending Brown University’s renowned medical school that he never stopped to consider whether or not it was a good idea.

Chris ruminates until Ivan Skinner takes the podium. It’s his week to lecture. In all the excitement of his incredible, useless insight into the Butcher case, he completely forgot.

He met Doctor Skinner at the beginning of first semester, when he still had room in his brain for names and faces. Ivan is...striking, to say the least. Though he must be in his fifties, he’s somehow retained his shocking red hair. His freckles don’t make him look boyish. He wears them with pride, and he knows how to dress, or overdress, for his coloring. A three piece suit under his lab coat, every goddamn day. Chris could never pull that off.

Ivan Skinner is also his new academic advisor, since the last one, Doctor Sylvia, had a nervous breakdown and left without warning in the middle of the night. He should have been piss-your-pants, run-for-the-hills intimidated, because even other doctors are intimidated by Ivan. He would have been, under any other circumstances—but Chris was failing general pathology, and fully intended to drop out at the time of their first meeting. Nothing to lose.

So when Ivan says, “Mr. Dour, please sit down,” Chris sits in the graduate assistants’ chair, at the corner of the desk, instead of the chair by the door where first year bitches are supposed to sit.

That’s how he sees the drawings.

They’re peeking out of the topmost drawer—standard anatomical sketches, to an untrained eye. But Chris is trained. He catches the sensual curve of the serratus anterior, the shimmer of sweat on the unflayed pectoral muscle, and it’s only a hunch. It could be innocent.

Chris knows it isn’t.

“Your drawings are beautiful,” he says.

Doctor Skinner smiles. “It will take more flattery than that to improve your grade.”

“Sorry. I’m not trying to flatter you. I’ve just always admired—” he tears his eyes away from the sketch “—anatomy.”

“You work as a pathologist’s assistant, yes?”

“Uh, yeah. How’d you know that?”

“I read your file.”

“Huh.” Chris furrows his brow. “Well, respectfully, Doctor, I’m not looking for a lecture. I know going to med school while working was a mistake. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in months, and I’m going to drop out.”

He’s hoping for a frown, at least. Ivan is indifferent. “A costly mistake, but not uncommon,” he says. “I’ve had this conversation twice in the past week.” He glances at his gold watch. Chris doesn’t know much about watches, but can assume from context that it’s expensive. “That leaves us fifteen minutes. What would you like to discuss?”

“Really? You’re not going to try and stop me?”

“You’ve clearly made up your mind. You’re an adult, Christopher, more so than most of my students. You’re capable of making your own decisions.”

Chris leans back in his chair, which is actually identical to the bitches’ chair, and bites his lip.

“It’s not that I don’t want to become a doctor,” he says. “But Katherine put me on the Butcher case. She asked for me by name. I think she just felt sorry for me, but still, I can’t pass up an opportunity like that.”

“You see the case as offering more opportunity for career advancement than a medical degree?” Ivan isn’t looking at him. He’s writing something, but Chris can’t see what.

“I don’t know. Maybe. There’s a lot of value to be had in…” He glances at Ivan, and pauses just long enough to catch his gaze. “...hands-on experience.”

Ivan cocks his head, sets down his pen, and turns to face Chris with his whole body. He clasps his hands in his lap and leans forward. “I want to see you succeed,” he says. “It would be a shame to waste such passion.”

A shiver wracks Christopher’s body, and it takes concerted effort to remain still. Calm down. Don’t read too much into this.

“I don’t have time anymore,” Chris says. “You did it; you know how much work it is, even without a job. And the Butcher victims come first.”

“Their corpses come first.”

“Uh, yeah.”

Ivan smiles again, and each time is slightly more unsettling than the last. “Take one of the drawings home,” he says. “Choose your favorite.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I won’t allow you to drop out of medical school because you’re too interested in anatomy. You aren’t the first, and you certainly won’t be the last.”

Christopher’s mind is whirring. He gingerly removes the sheaf of paper from the desk drawer, but his eyes are fixed on Doctor Skinner. “The first what?” He asks.
Could be interesting if the writing was better. The first scene was hard to get through although it did get a little better. I read the reviews on your site. How come non of them have the authors name? How do we know these are real reviews and not just something you threw together for yourself?
 
OP
Ezrablake

Ezrablake

NewbieX
Unfortunately, nobody wants their name associated with this, but I had it posted for free online for awhile. I don’t mind if you don’t want to buy it; like I said, it’s a passion project. Thanks for the feedback!
 
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