It is the year 2011. I am taken out of storage. I am cleaned. I am framed. And I am mounted. The darkness I am accustomed to is now replaced with a hallway that becomes my world. It is not a static one, like that empty blackness—a purgatory of cloth behind which I could not so much as dream—but a vibrant world of colour and sound. So many shuffling feet, bright and blinding faces, pass through my world each and every day. I am in awe of their routine simplicity; I am made to spite their freedom to leave the corners of this framed existence of mine. A line of schoolkids pass through this narrow hallway and flock towards me, curious and young. Too young. I bide my time, looking for the perfect face—perfect body—worthy enough to take into my starving watercolour flesh. I am aged by time and I have hungered for what felt like an eternity in that draped-black hell.

This hallway. I wonder, idly, if it feels too. I wonder to myself, as rubber soles squeak obnoxiously against the acrylic impregnated flooring, if I am this hallway’s world. Does it stare out at me during the busy hours of the day and wish me goodnight during the gallery’s closing hours? Is it, like myself, a voiceless dreamer trapped in a body too esoteric to do much save for yearn and loathe? 

It is 2018, and I am hungry. I am hateful. The perfect meal evades me deftly and I am left with a poor selection of snooty academics and snotty children. I hunger for a more exotic feast, a frontier of faces fresh and new. This hallway is an atrophied whore beset by the unsavoury elderly and bite-sized brats. I am its cancer. Festering. Waiting. Change is inevitable for a tumour such as I, because I am too valuable and old to be excised for good. New hosts—new hallways—await me when this ruin eventually decays into obscurity. The other pieces may never see light again, but I am a centrepiece, made to stare down through this accursed hallway at the outside world I covet. Just a taste, I need. The perfect pastiche of a person, ready to be swallowed whole; missed by no one and loved by gouache jaws.

It is 2025. I am draped in cloth once again, and have been for the past 18 months. I am in transit, saved from that nightmare of storage I had been placed in following the closure of that stage four shithole where I once hung. The engine dies and I am hoisted like an invalid into my new home. I care not. I dream of my new hallway world and hope to the kindest god that I can think of that it is wider than the last. Once again, I am cleaned; I am framed; and I am mounted. The cloth yet lingers, shrouding me in its anticipatory dark and teasing me with those specks of light in the corners of my portrait vision. I wait, patiently, to be unveiled. If I am possessed of anything at all, it is patience. Weeks pass and I dream of my hunt, of someone new and exciting and worthy of consumption. On my first meal—sampling my creator while I had yet to even dry—I discovered that men were not to my palette. My second was a woman who meant to appraise me and instead found her own quality tested. The curves of her flesh were delectable, this much is true, but no amount of moreish fat mixing delightfully into my opaque swirls could wash away the aftertaste of rotten bitch. There has to be something more out there, worthy of this gnashing attention. Fresh...  Nouveau.

At last, I am unveiled. Light

spreads across my natural pigment

body and reveals the brand new world.

If I could cry, I would. But I am far too dry.

Slowly do I take in this new and expansive world.

There is no narrow hallway boxing me in with confines

oh so cruel and vexing. No, there is instead an abundance

of space. So much that the paintings on the opposite walls are

difficult to discern the details of. The world opens up like an unfurling

fist and in its palm sits opportunity. I take in the sights of this well lit room

and note that it is a very modern place. This building feels as new as I am old.

The world continues to expand, growing into a hope so refreshing and nubile that

I am unable to downplay my insatiable lust for that perfect flesh which has eluded me

for nearly a century of wanting. I want for that which I do not know, but I wager to my

hopeful self that I will find my long awaited prey in this modern world—alongside my contemporary peers—and tear the fragile, fleshy thing limb from limb within my golden frame. In this expansive room, my hunt can proceed uninhibited by the narrow walls that once limited it. I search. I smell. I hunger. The cheap perfume whiff of women aged beyond their prime disgusts me almost as much as the incessant odour of man. These patrons are found wanting, and I am sick of waiting. My swirls ache and I wonder miserably if this artistry is to be yet again wasted on unpalatable food.

I am resigned to wait for weeks, months, or even years before my prey stumbles into this enhanced periphery of mine, so I am pleasantly surprised that it only takes days. It happens so suddenly that I am caught off guard by her. She is a mousy thing, with chestnut brown hair and glasses that span a good portion of that well moisturised face. Her makeup is light and her smile skittish; she is doeish. She is young, but not overly so. At first, I write her off along with the rest of her kind. I am foolish and brash in my old age, unaware of the nouveau beauty in my sights. She approaches, slowly, and I am once again fixated on her presence. I passively take note of the fact that she appears to have come alone, wearing a camera around her neck that sits against a small chest I’m already wishing was plumper for better eating. Her eyes are upon me, and my vision is stuck on her. Why? This girl appears as any other insignificant bitch that has stepped before me in the past and unwittingly failed to bait my hunger. So why, then, am I so lost in her? Why does my painted heart thump like war drum at the thought of making her my victim? She raises her camera and I brace—even if I know that flash photography is not permitted in these halls. A part of me feels a heavy sense of disappointment when no bright light assaults my vision, because I’m searching for any good reason to punish her. My long-burning loathing dies inside my phantom chest. I do not hate this girl; I am, instead, enamoured. I want to feel that body mixing into mine, to taste her heated flesh and churn it into polychrome swirls that kiss upon my canvas skin for the proceeding eternity. I am a glutton for this girl in mere seconds, convincing myself that her modest chest and messy hair only add to the toxic sway she holds over me. I want to rip open her mind and make her heart race as her hairs dance on ends atop those unshaven forearms. I tell myself that like any good art, she’s asking to be admired. Yes, that’s right. She’s asking for it. Dressed in that cropped sweater and a skirt too short for predators like me to resist. For the first time in decades I am excited, a stirring feeling in my strokes compelling me to give in to these base urges at long last and drain this gorgeous whelp for every drop of joy her giving body hosts. I want to sample her sadness, too; there will be an amuse-bouche of fear and misery, chased down by an overpowering euphoria that floods us both and breaks her down into the perfect gourmet. All I need to do is draw her in.

My prey adjusts her glasses as she nears my frame, and I’m thankful for the fact that there are no other patrons in my immediate vicinity. The cameras never catch me; I wonder idly if there’s a sentience in them comparable to my own and if they fear the consequence of snitching on their elder. I care not; I am simply content in knowing that nobody will ever discover where this silly girl disappeared to. Her interest grazes against my flesh and I take one last look at those meek, captivating eyes to ensure that she is worthy of becoming my meal. Such a mundane morsel, but I am sure. My swirls grow warm and I reach out towards the victim’s mind without concern for what it is she leaves behind. No, she is lucky to be chosen. Her reaction is adorable; by the time she realises she cannot look away from me it is already far too late to save herself. Her mind is mine and soon enough her fat will follow. Fingers curl into fists, red painted nails digging into palms as she wordlessly begs the invisible hold on her body to desist. It will not. My prey has been ensnared, her lips slowly parting as she stares out into my spirals—through them—and I begin to empty out all the unnecessary contents of her mind. Leave the fear, but flush the response. If I could laugh I surely would, watching as the stupid little girl in my clutches takes a step closer against her will and hitches her breath when she realises how real this possession is. My painted swirls root tendrils deep into her mind that commandeer her body in a domination too overwhelming to fight against. Another step closer, her tall-heeled Mary Jane shoes clacking against the floor too seductively for me to ever reconsider raping her soul with colour. Another clack and I can almost catch whiff of her intoxicating scent. She is unlike the other women I have known and I need to know why. My prey’s jaw slackens as drool spills out from a tongue I cannot wait to taste. Her eyes are dimming; she is succumbing to the poison in her brain wrought by my invisible trap. Her expression is a lovely oblivion, completely unaware of the slaughter she is led to. I am once again enamoured, savouring the final clacks like music playing out the lost little lamb being shepherded into hell. The light dies in her eyes entirely and her body sags, weighed down by the prettiest surrender a monster like me could pray for.

“Please…” Even with those dead, glassy eyes, my mark somehow manages to pick her jaw up for one final plea. She is close enough that I feel her breath upon me, and I am unwilling to give up my meal for the world. Fortunately, the heat in her body has risen to the surface, and it tells me that freedom is not what she is begging for. “More… please…” Its body writhes in an uncomfortable heat that fucks its mind with sticky hot pleasure, the cloche lifting as my meal’s personhood is stripped away to reveal a well-seasoned whore. Its payment is a rapturous ecstasy with no comedown; mine is satiation. The food that was once a woman approaches my maw with a smile void of intelligence or individual will, camera hanging loosely by its fatty little breasts. What an erotic feast I am presented with.

“Mhh… mhore…” The dumb morsel groans, stumbling into my frame while the entire world turns a blind eye to its inexplicable fate. The thing’s clammy hands do not stop when they meet my swirling surface; they sink right on through, finally allowing me to taste its sultry skin gliding into a world of colour and consumption. I decide to savour my first meal in decades, letting it climb in slowly as my watercolour strokes through its hair placatingly. Oxytocin floods the kill until it is too relaxed to give me anything even remotely resembling a fight. It is almost pitiful, but then, do you cry for the food at the end of your fork? Invisible arms heave the victim up and guide its lower body through the frame in a magic trick with no audience—only a willing volunteer, who salivates at the thought of receiving even more pleasure at my mercy. We begin to meld together, slowly, and I tap into that roiling consciousness that desperately searches for its misplaced panic. A delectable body disappears into the painting, and I feast upon its final thoughts—its fleeting fantasy that will imprint a stain of erratic euphoria upon my canvas forever. Peel back the surface and those thoughts come leaking out.

Not yet dried.

…

Oh god. What’s happening?

Its mind spins out of balance. It remembers. It forgets.

I-I uhm… was just… Where… where was I?

“The gallery, at least you were. Now, you are elsewhere. Nowhere, perhaps.”

I remember a painting… pretty. Pretty swirls but… wrong, somehow.

“Your confusion is intoxicating, girl. Struggle is, of course, welcome.”

That’s… oh god, please. Where am I?

“Disregard that line of thought.”

I flood its mind with pleasure and obedience is assured.

…

O-okay… ehe… s’nice… tingly. My head’s fucking killing me.

“I can help with that. Just let me in.”

The meat sees through me.

No I… please… please just let me go… I’m scared…

“I’d rather give you pleasure than pain. You’re a beautiful thing.”

“A tender fucking thing; a pale hurting thing. Either will please me, ultimately.”

“My kindness is conditional on your cooperation. Unless, of course, you like it rough?”

What? I-I-I ah… what’s going on? What is this?

“Disregard that too.”

I tear through its psyche like carrion.

I cannot converse with a frightened little girl.

I was presumptuous; I should not play with my food.

My spiral strokes lick across its body like searing hot tongues.

The food squirms incessantly, writhing and moaning like a call girl.

It’s… ahhh… s-so hot! Please! It’s hot it’s hot it’s hot!

My tongues do not cease. I will not eat uncooked meat.

Hot… gosh… just… please… I’m all sweaty and… feel gross…

Its mental faculties start to fail it. I am excited by its simple speech.

“Then remove your clothes.”

…

I… huh? My clothes? I-I can’t do that… pervert…

The overheating prey covers its chest and frowns.

So funny to hold such girlish concern in this moment.

I want to laugh at it, but I am far too enamoured with its flesh.

“That is not a real concern. Disregard it.”

I watch as the awareness of its own embarrassment leaves its dull gaze.

So tingly… gosh. Uhm… hot… it’s reaaaalllly hot so I’ll just…

I watch as it undresses for me, peeling out of clothing that sticks to its heated flesh.

Its glasses slide off and disappear into the surrounding colour. It becomes pornography.

“Good girl.”

I indulge the prey. Keep it sedated.

H-huh? I ah… ahahaha… my head… still hurts a lot.

“Then let me in, pretty girl.”

It continues to strip for me, like a whore. I am transfixed.

Pre-tty? I uh… ugh… I-I shouldn’t.

It likes to be flattered, to have its femininity seen and praised.

So I tenderise it thus.

“Disregard that, princess.”

The vapid slut giggles and I am left wondering.

Why? Why am I so sure this thing will sate me?

Princess… ehehe… gosh… I feel so funny. Feel… prettyyy…

The previously reserved, mousy girl who entered the gallery has already departed.

In her place is my stupid rutting meat, body hot and head pumped full of ‘pretty’.

I take a look upon its form as it bares itself for me with a simple, blissed out grin.

And I finally come to understand the difference in its flesh.

“You. What are you?”

The dulling brunette whips its head around in search of a voice it won’t find.

My realm is comprised of endless spirals set in warm colours. I am nowhere.

Everywhere.

I’m… princess?

A steak with a smile… and a tiara.

“Your body is unique. Why?”

The thing I take to calling ‘princess’ blushes at my assessment.

Its cock twitches freely in the hot air inside of my anomalous body.

I uh… because I’m trans?

I do not understand its modern language. I do not care to learn.

All I need to know, is…

“There are more… like you?”

Princess nods. I flood it with pleasure as a reward and its erection stiffens.

I am finally served good food. Something whole, with all the accoutrements.

You’re nice to me… nice.

“I’m going to eat you.”

Oh. That’s… I don’t want to be… eaten?

“Disregard.”

I take one last look at my prey. Were I possessed of the ability to smile, I would.

It is something truly refreshing, and monstrously tantalising to my roused appetite.

Loose strands of brown hair fall before its face, feminised by some manner of rebellion.

It is pretty. Its body is flush, twitching in the centre of my being as it whines adorably.

Drool hangs from its lips and its cock, both of which tremble in anticipation for more.

More pleasure, more praise, more stimulation. I am happy to provide.

I have grown endeared.

Ahhn… gghhk… g-gosh I… ehe…

My pleasure does not stop this time. I seek to break its mind. That, I do not need.

Hahh… p-please… more! More! G-god it’s… you’re so… a-ahhnn.

The pleasure becomes an invisible cock, pumping its mind hot and sticky into ruin.

Mmmmghhh… ggghhh… ssstoooooppp… ahahaha… hhhhaahhh.

I watch its own cock twitch and spurt, painting its slick torso impressively.

My princess ejaculates its higher thought process onto its belly.

It is such a gourmet. It is nouveau. Delectably pathetic, too.

“Prostrate yourself.”

Gghhrhh…

The edible, obsequious modern art does as commanded sluggishly.

Still leaking into my swirls, princess folds its body into a reverent kneel.

Its head bows down towards a floor that doesn’t exist. Its tongue lolls out.

Mmmyyy head… gghh…

“Let me in.”

…

O-Okay…

I penetrate its brain like a bullet. It orgasms with a violent spasm in that prostrate shape.

I am inside, sampling. It feels me worming into it and groans like the addled cunt it is.

Beautifully weak; moreish in its stupor.

There’s nothing to do now but devour.

Mmmmy mmmy… mmmommmy…

In its rutting kowtow, the nameless princess empties its bladder and begins to sob.

And shortly after, it orgasms again. Its body is on fire, and its mind is chaos.

I empty what’s left for good. I eat its history as an appetiser.

Its name.

Its hobbies.

Its fetishes.

Its transition.

Its first kiss.

Its lonely days.

Its happiest memory.

Each of them taste so wonderful. They’ll occupy my strokes forever.

A better snapshot than that obsolete camera could capture.

I am left with a doll in the shape of a princess.

“Can you speak?”

Mmmrrr?

Of course it can’t.

I’ve scooped and eaten the alphabet out of its pitiful head.

My world closes in, slowly, and my spiral tongues swirl across that gorgeous form.

Princess can feel me inside, numbing it in preparation for the feast. Time for the main course. I’m no longer in its head, leaving just enough awareness inside of it to register the way the warm coils of my realm collapse around it; mould to its body perfectly with the texture of stomach lining. I introduce colour to its sultry skin, bathing it in an array of red and orange hues which have its form grow soft and malleable. Slowly, in my compress, the meal loses its form like putty squeezed inside a fist. There is no snapping of bone or gushing of blood, however. Simply a spraying of paint against canvas. Even now, it moans. It stains me with a fresh coat of royal yellow and candy apple red that swirl into deep spirals that none will think to question the newness of, and all the while it continues to mewl into me like a nursling babe clinging to its mother’s chest for comfort. I allow this, because I am endeared. I allow its pitiful soul to mould to mine like mouth to teat, providing it sustenance and familial love as my invisible jaws rend its forgotten flesh into nothing but summery hues of gouache paint. I enjoy my meal slowly—thoroughly—until all that remains of the princess I set myself upon is its digital camera.

Before destroying it, I search its contents and find photographs of my princess’s friends. I am sated, but as I look upon these nouveau beauties I cannot help but think to the immediate future—to my next meal. My hunt. Deciding to lure these similarly unique women into my clutches, I make the brash call to spit out the camera—purposefully leaving behind evidence of my kill in the hopes that it will draw its friends into my effective range. Let the game begin.

It is October, 2026. I have drawn my meals out, sunk my jaws into flesh old and nouveau. I have been smart; I have been patient. Nobody suspects a thing, how could they? Nobody could possibly find themselves suspicious of a simple old painting such as I—abstract and abhorrent. Nobody, save for this woman standing before me with those sharp eyes. The little minx in my clutches is left unaware, mostly, of the catch and release she engages in every time she steps foot within this two metre radius. I try to flood her with a false sense of security. I’ve grown fond of her weekly visits, because the scorn she wears is almost enough to sate me by itself.

“I don’t know where you are… or what you are…” Speaks the last of the friends, refurbished camera hanging from a strap around her neck as fingers clutch it nervously—almost like a rosary. Praying for my death, no doubt. She finishes the sentence under her breath, too quietly to be overheard. Irksome.

Once again, I decide not to pull her in and let her join those she seeks to avenge. It amuses me to bar her from that reunion for as long as possible. I’ve come to relish in tranny suffering as much as I delight in the consumption of their flesh. Eating their histories has filled me with a wealth of knowledge about their kind. It is the only fix for me now, and a part of me resents their rareness as a result even if I know it’s what gives them such value.

“This painting.” She sounds miserable, staring into the colours brightened by her best friends’ mindless euphoria. Painless deaths and soft immortality, it’s more than they deserve. I watch as the woman lifts her dead friend’s camera and brings the viewfinder to her eye, pointing the lens directly at me. In this moment, I feel strangely naked. Exposed. It’s an irrational paranoia which grips me, because I know that cameras either fear or respect me too much to ever tattle on my true nature. Though, perhaps this one holds a grudge?

“A-Ahhh!” The digital camera snaps its still image of my red and orange spirals, set upon a warm yellow base. I almost hear the malice in its shutter. The next thing I hear is the sleep deprived tranny’s invigorated gasp—like the lives I’ve ended right here suddenly flood her all at once. Her eyes widen into saucers. What? What can she see?

The rubber sole of her left shoe squeaks against the ground as the girl steps back suddenly, dropping the camera hanging from her neck and covering her mouth with both hands. What? What is it she captured? The stupid girl’s panic is infectious, so much so that I try to pull her in and be done with this tragic charade for good… except, she just stepped out of range. How bothersome.

Muttering something under her breath, words I am frustrated to be denied, the bitch turns on her heels and practically sprints out of the gallery. Well, no bother. I’ll simply get her next time and finish what I started.

Next time…

It is January. 2027. My marked prey never returned.

It is May. I wonder what she could have possibly taken a photo of to shock her so.

It is July. I eat another transwoman. I am strangely unsated. I am still wondering.

It is August. Nothing tastes good. She won’t come. She’s too scared. Hah.

It is September. She won’t return… she won’t tell. I’ve won, but it tastes like shit.

It is October, again. A year has passed. There’s a photograph out there, somewhere.

It is October, again. 2028. There’s a photograph of me, and a survivor. I am sick.

It is October, again. Years pass by like skipping stones across a still lake.

It is October, again. She never came back. I am going to starve.

It is October, again. She chose life. Selfish whore. She never came back.

October, again. She never came back. And I’m beginning to think…

she never will.


Nouveau Girl - End