Creepy - I'm Not Hungry Anymore

Episode Date: March 27, 2020

Eating away at you...*** Written by FoulFaerie and narrated by Jessica McEvoy***Content warning: sexual violence***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

This is the bloody disgusting podcast network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain. graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Presents. I'm not hungry anymore. Written by Foul Fairy. And narrated by Jessica McAvoy. I need some advice. I found myself in a strange situation and I just need to know if anyone else has any experience in this type of thing. It's been almost impossible to find any people like me.

I'm quiet, private, and I don't let people in. I assume that other people like me are just as hard to crack, hence why it's hard to find those afflicted in the same ways. I'll lay this out from the beginning, so you can all understand what is happening to me. I worked as an escort, prostitute, whore, however you prefer to phrase it. I've heard all the names. I have been exposed to sex for as long as I can remember, in one form or another, none of which have created fond memories.

Most recently, I worked from home, and every night has followed the same pattern. I make a booking or two for the evening, surreptitiously placed after my day job ends, but before it's too late for my neighbors to find suspicious. I get home and shower, then select one of my pre-made outfits, always the same miniskirt, belt, and some kind of low-cut top. I slip into some thigh highs and apply my lipstick. I never make too much of an effort, as it never matters anyway. The men that I see aren't choosy. They don't notice if I have eyeliner on or have ripped tights.

I always make sure my nails are perfect. though. That's just a personal preference. Each night is the same. An hour here and an hour there, never more, often less. The doorbell rings, coinciding with the hunger pains I feel in my stomach. I never have a chance to eat before the first booking arrives. I open the door, plastering a fake smile on my face, and my guest will always invite himself in. The fact of the fact that I that they always barge in, without even a hello, will never cease to be annoying to me. These men come to see a hooker and act like MI5 is personally watching them, furtively glancing around for watchers that don't exist.

Sometimes my guests will bring flowers or some other small trinket. It makes them feel like this is something other than just a quick fuck. But underneath, they are all the same. Hungry little animals, chomping at the bit to eat, starving for attention and craving the touch of my skin against theirs. It doesn't take long for the facade to drop. Clothes get ripped off like the shed skin of a snake and fall discarded to the floor. So revealing the true beast underneath, the one that's ready to devour me whole. The beasts always pounce, licking their lips, and with glistening eyes, focus solely on their perceived prey.

My stomach growls, almost in anticipation, but I always ignore it, choosing instead to submit to the will of my guest, becoming little more than an extension to their own perversity. I am more than willing to allow them to use and abuse me. I never complain or cry. I never ask for mercy from those. those who enjoy inflicting pain. I never turn my face away or react to being insulted.

I take each slap like an expert. My reactions carefully measured and practiced over time. I have perfected my doe eyes, dopey and demure with a hint of something that is hard to distinguish, perhaps fear or possibly excitement. In the heat of the moment, there is no time to analyze it. I have a few set moans and cries called forth when the moment requires it. A slap across the face brings forth a stifled gasp.

A rough pinch of a nipple elicits a heady moan. Each noise practiced and honed to hurry the pace of the beasts along their journey. My stomach has long stopped growling and grumbling. The deep hunger inside of me is slowly abating. forgotten almost as I find myself entwined with my temporary lovers every thrust every slap every beat of sweat lost over me feeds me every ounce of anger aggression and entitlement is pulled into me and fills my body it awakens some primal part of me it feels like every fiber of me is on fire my nerves and senses are about blaze. Far too late do my guests realize that they are literally fading away, losing their strength

as I become more alive. They cannot stop. There is an addiction wrapped around the very core of their being. The tendrils take hold in a second, digging in deeper than anything else could. The addiction transferred from me passes on with a single touch that is pure. pure and inescapable. Within minutes, they are a little more than a pallid, hollowed-out version of themselves. They claw in futility at their necks, gasping for a breath that they cannot hope to draw. Their skin cracks, pulling tight over rapidly weakening bones. At this point, the process is irreversible, and I pull away to watch the spectacle. Even in this, They search wildly for more, flailing and stumbling on spindly bowed limbs.

The show never really changes, but I love to watch all the same. I stare in wide-eyed wonder each and every time, as I feel the hatred in the world lesson ever so slightly. I consume it all, and take pleasure in spiriting the darkness away from the world, storing it away from the weak and sensitive. The last thing to dissolve away is always the eyes, searching for someone to blame and silently accusing me for the misfortune that has befallen them. There is never an ounce of regret or even understanding. A few more moments, and they disappear entirely, fading into the ether, leaving me naked, battered and bruise.

on whatever surface had been home to my abuse. The bruises on my skin, the tears in my eyes, the disgust on my face are my trophies every single time. At some point, my area of influence removes the rest of the evidence from my home. By the time I've cleaned myself up, nothing remains. Clothes and keys, wallets and phones all disappear as if they're. never existed. The nature of my business is secret and clandestine. I've been doing this for a long time and have no concerns about being caught. I have no idea how far the vanishing effect goes.

Do they cease to exist entirely? Do their possessions vanish? Are they forgotten by their families or declared missing? I've never known enough about these. hateful creatures to check. Not one of my visitors has escaped this fate, even those who visit me without bringing violence to me. They all carry the same weight of expectance and use me like a toy. I can always feel the filth emanating from them. The dirt takes the longest to clean away.

It remains long after the bruises fade and the taste is gone. They will try to kiss. and cuddle, stroke my hair and call me beautiful, but in the end, an animal cannot hide its true nature. My guests come for an hour, never more and usually less. They never leave. They feed me and keep me satiated. I was happy and comfortable being a creature of the dark. I understood my place in the world, and I had hollowed out a purpose. I was content in my existence, holding on to a power which controlled me, finding peace with it and the protection it had originally given me. I always felt like a modern-day Medusa, seemingly cursed in the eyes of a man, but viewed by

my own eyes as a blessing, a way to have my revenge and never truly suffer again. I suppose now is the best time to mention my problem, the strange predicament that I find myself in. The anger and hatred that sustains me doesn't stay with me anymore. I have lived the same way for a long, long time. Ever since my last visitor, things have been different. The fire inside of me feels like it no longer rages like an inferno. It is warm and comforting like a hearth. The darkness that ebbed and flowed within my mind doesn't feel as heavy.

It feels as though a curtain has been pulled back and light is streaming it. His first visit to me was different from the start. Sweet and subdued, shy almost. He was gentle and kind. The polar opposite of anything and even. everything I've ever known. Without even knowing it, he traced the scars on my skin and caressed me in a way I'd never felt. Nothing was done without permission. Not even a kiss was stolen from me. I thought it was a fluke that he stayed whole after our time together. I was left breathless and

confused. Over the next month, perhaps, I saw him again and again, determined. Determined. to understand why he was different, how he seemed immune to me. I saw him as something completely, undeniably foreign to me. I didn't understand anything he did or said. The light in his presence completely extinguished the darkness inside of me. I feel awake and alive, but in a way I've never felt before. I step out of my home into something that feels like a newer world. The darkness outside my stoop is further away than it has ever been. It no longer licks at my hands and feet as I open my door. I tried to convince myself it was some new kind of lie, some method of hurt that I had never before experienced. He must still be deserving of a pitiful end. There must be the same. There must be the

same bestial heart beating inside his chest. But the image he portrays never changes and never falters. I'm realizing too late that I don't ever feel hungry anymore. I am now the one being devoured. I don't think I'll disappear. I just think I'm changing instead. Something is happening to me. So really, I suppose what I want to know is, has anyone ever been through this? What am I becoming? And can a creature of darkness survive in the light? For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us at CreepyPyPy!

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