The Devouring by Kristopher Triana

“The first time I had sex,” she said, “I was nineteen.”

“That’s not too scandalous.”

“Well,” she admitted, coyly, her faint British accent adding to her exoticism, “it was with me uncle.”

Violet had insisted that a game of truth or dare could show people whether they would be compatible or not on a first date, as long as the game was straightforward. So, we’d started with a few truths. She asked me intense questions: what was my most painful memory, who was the most prominent person in my masturbation fantasies, if I was to murder someone which weapon would I use? I had answered as honestly as I could: losing my mother, Madeline Smith, and a hatchet. She didn’t ask for explanations, just answers. My questions to her had been timid at first, but given the nature of her own questions, I decided that I shouldn’t bore her, so I asked about her first sexual experience and now she’d answered.

“He’d always eyed me,” she said, “and there was a manliness to him that I’d never found in the boys at school. It wasn’t rape. In fact, I advanced on him.”

I didn’t know how to respond.

“Now, it’s my turn,” she said. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” I said, though I was curious about a dare.

“How’d you lose your finger?”

I looked down at my left hand. Only half of the pinkie was there, severed at the knuckle.

“Dare,” I said.

She didn’t object to the change, but I could sense her curiosity build. It spun in her wide eyes and curled in the corners of her mouth.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

“Is that the whole dare?”

“Close them and let me show you something.”

I did and felt her scoot closer to me on the couch. She breathed into my ear. At first, I thought she was going to kiss me, being as forward as she was, but instead she licked my earlobe. I soon felt her head resting in my lap. She made no effort to undo my slacks, but she found the bulge of my erection and put her mouth on the shaft. She bit it. Not hard or fiercely, but enough to apply pressure. Good, sweet pain. She held me there in her jaws for a moment, like a dog with a rubber newspaper. Then she released me and sat up.

“You like that?” she asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“So did me uncle.”

This was the nature of Violet, the Violet I grew to know. But I think I’ve gotten ahead of myself with this. For, to truly understand Violet—and myself for that matter—I should explain how we met.


“You have a nice collection,” she said, gazing through my boxes of imports, out-of-prints and rare bootlegs.

I’d seen her wandering about that afternoon at HorrorCon, a convention for horror enthusiasts. I made a living with obscure DVD sales. While not everyone is interested in films like Subconscious Cruelty, Meet the Feebles, Santa Sangre, or Invasion of the Blood Farmers, there is a minority out there who hunger for such gore-smeared flicks.

She’d been noticed by just about everyone there. She was tall but wore high heels anyway, accentuating her unusual height. Her dress inflamed the senses as it molded to her body like wet tissue, her nipples hardened by the chill. Her hair was so blonde it looked nearly white, and it framed her pallid face like a sickle. But it was her eyes that stunned me most; those harrowing eyes. They reminded me of Barbara Steele’s in Bava’s classic Black Sunday; wide and possessed.

“Well, well,” she said, coyly, holding up a DVD. “Antropophagus?

“Indeed,” I replied. “The 1980 classic.”

“I was disappointed with The Grim Reaper. What a rip- off.”

A little known fact in the fanboy world is that the film Antropophagus was released on DVD in America with the alternate title The Grim Reaper. The film was also edited to pieces, eliminating all of the grisly scenes which gave it its notoriety, including the infamous scene where a fetus is expunged from a pregnant mother and consumed, as well as my personal favorite part: the finale of self-cannibalism.

“My inventory is entirely censorship free,” I told her.

“I lived in England during the madness over all the video nasties, when Thatcher’s censorship was in full bloom. As a teen getting to see a bootlegged copy of The Last House on the Left was just about the most exciting thing in the world.”

“I read about that—”

“Any porno?”

She was staring at me with those eyes, menacing like Medusa’s before her snakes turned men to stone.

“Not here, just soft-core horror stuff. Misty Mundae, that sort of thing.”

“How droll.”

“Vampire erotica not your thing?”

“Well, the oldies are not without their charm. Lena Lomay writhing around naked for an hour and a half, dyking out and drinking blood. But these new soft-core, goth pictures are such a bore. The sex is fake and the horror elements are gormless kitsch. I mean, do me a favor.”

“You prefer something more intense?”

“Internet’s the way to go, but you have to be careful.”

“Yeah, there’re a lot of sickos out there.”

“It’s not the crazies I worry about; it’s the filth…by which I mean the police. So many rules and regulations. So many people monitoring what you look at. It’s bloody intrusive.”

I wondered just what sort of porn sparked her interest. I remained timid on the outside, even though my insides pulsed. And so it was she who led me.

“I like some of the real dirt,” she said. “Humiliation, consensual torture.”

I swallowed heavily at the reality of her being like my most filthy dream made flesh.

“People frown on it all, though,” she said. “Just as they frown on all these bloody pictures of yours. But really, what’s the problem with a rape fantasy, as long as it’s fantasy, right?”


To my joy she’d accepted my invitation to the screening of Doorway to Goreday and I’d gone to her apartment to pick her up. We’d engaged in our round of truth or dare, where her quick nibbling of my cock was as far as we’d gone physically, but psychologically we had expunged much from one another’s exposed souls.

After the film we went to a late diner where our conversation escalated.

“What’s the most intense film you’ve seen?” she asked. “That depends.”

“Come off it. In your line of work? There must be one that stands out at the forefront of your head.”

She was right of course. I had immediately thought of the forty minute short entitled Bloody Bathroom. I’d only received a copy under the most secretive of circumstances. I’d never shown it to anyone or spoken of it in a manner that might suggest that I had a VHS copy stashed away in my safe at home.

“It really depends. Faces of Death contains real animal deaths and fake human deaths. The Japanese Guinea Pig series is splendidly brutal, as is the Angel Guts rape-movie series. Cannibal Holocaust—”

“About a week ago I saw a real pisser,” she interrupted. “Two blokes pussy-pound this silly cunt for twenty minutes. They spank her arse with belts making it glow like Christmas. Then they tie her to the end of the bed. The one bloke fucks her mouth till she’s choking and her mascara is running from tears.”

Violet laughed as she reflected.

“Then,” she continued, “they pull out this vice. They put it into her mouth and it forces her mouth to stay open, the brackets pushing her jaw down as far as it will go. They start jerking themselves in her face, and it’s funny ’cause it reminded me of that carny game with the water pistols and the clown heads; finally, they shot their fun all over her face, trying to get as much of it in her mouth as possible, like it was a contest.”

She laughed heartily.

“That was a bloody good show,” she said, “but I’ve seen better. You’ve seen better too, I’m sure.”

An hour later, back at my place, we sat watching rare documentary footage shot in Polynesia. The footage was of tribes preparing human flesh for ritual cannibalism. Violet was engrossed in these images that I had viewed numerous times. But I was still excited by the real-life devouring of people by people. When we came to the footage of the Binderwurs of central India consuming the severed limbs of their dead, Violet spread out upon the couch with her legs toward me. Her bare feet dug into my crotch. She separated her knees and slid her skirt up around her waist. She wore no panties and was freshly shaven. The flesh of her legs was even paler than the doll-like skin of her face, but here, on her inner thighs, the flesh was covered in razor scars. She placed her hand on the back of my neck and pulled my head down into the moist, warm, welcoming darkness of her opening.

Her eyes never left the screen.

I knew I was falling in love with her.


The belt was tight enough around her neck to give her the full effect of throttling. Her face was pink and growing redder, heading toward the bliss. She lay on her stomach on the bed, and I straddled her, my erection buried deep inside her. On the television, a bad bondage porno played. We were one week into our relationship and the passion was psychotic; a bloodlust-fueled marathon of sexual mania.

As her eyes rolled into her skull, she passed out and I came.

I loosened the belt and pulled out. I rolled her over and immediately tended to her with the smelling salts, snapping her awake in seconds. Drool fell from her swollen lips as she gasped, her breasts heaving as her lungs went into overdrive.

“Darling,” she said once her breathing steadied, “that’s the fuck I’ve been gagging for.”

She turned her head toward the flicker of the screen. An old woman was smacking a redhead’s ass.

“What a waste this is,” Violet complained. “This old tart whipping this silly twit.”

I exited the bathroom, my eyes on the safe in the corner. By now we’d ventured into some truly taboo places. We’d beaten and bruised each other and when it had brought us to the edge of suffering, we’d pushed on. She’d given me almost as much as I’d ever dreamed. I figured I shouldn’t hold out on her.

“I have a present for you,” I said.

Her eyes seemed to glow with anticipation even though I’d never told her about the movie. Somehow she just knew what was coming, and that she had earned the viewing.

“I must have been a very good girl,” she said as I opened up the safe and pulled out the cassette.

“Better,” I corrected, “you’ve been a very bad one.”

I scooted back onto the bed and we got comfortable. She clung to me in a combination of heightened excitement, sexual tension, and even a little bit of fear. The screen faded in. The words Bloody Bathroom were written on a page in marker. The paper was lowered, revealing a filthy bathroom. An overweight man came on screen, nude except for a pair of boots, rubber gloves, and a leather gimp mask with motorcycle goggles covering his eyes. He grunted and two other men came on screen in similar dress. One was boney and hairless with yellowish skin and the other was muscular and well hung. They carried a medical examiner’s body bag that was writhing.

Muted screams came from within it.

I felt Violet’s hand close around my arm.

We watched as the fat man ordered the others to lower the bag. The boney man ran toward the camera and picked it up, zooming in on the bag. It was unzipped to reveal a young woman, fully nude, with a ball gag in her mouth. There was no mistaking the fear in her face. This was real. The man pulled her out of the bag and dropped her onto the floor. She was bound and unable to break her fall. The men immediately went to work on her, raping her for the next twenty minutes; degrading her, beating her and torturing her in the most vile ways fathomable.

Violet watched, silent and enthralled.

She flinched when the fat man went off screen only to come back with a butcher knife. The muscular man was sodomizing the victim at this point. He quickly finished and spun her over for the facial. The fat man held her head for him, and as he climaxed the fat man stabbed her.

Violet gasped and we watched the second half of the film. It was a bloodbath of violent snuff. The victim was killed and eviscerated while the villains played with her insides. The screen went black and the tape abruptly ended.

As always, the film left me with the same mixed feelings of terror and shameful, joyous voyeurism. But I was curious about how Violet felt. She’d been quiet throughout the picture, never objecting, never turning away, but I had not been able to see her face. Her head had been resting on my chest.

With the film over, the room fell black.

“My God,” she whispered. “It was brilliant.”

She went into the bathroom and vomited.


“There’re many different forms of fame, Alex,” she said the next day. “You have the mega-fame: the movie stars and TV cunts. But then there’s the glory of underground fame; the names whispered in darkest corners. Names like Bloody Bathroom.”

“You really think it’s art?”

“It’s bloody trash, it’s vile and wrong, but it’s art nonetheless. It affected me more deeply than anything I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s just shock value though, ’cause it’s real.”

“It’s more than that, Alex. It’s not just sick curiosity or even subconscious sadism. It’s the hunger for stimulation; the endless desire for the new and bold. It’s not just the rape and the gore and the reality of it all. It’s easy to understand that there is a small group of loonies out there who do this sort of thing. The brilliance of it is that people who don’t do this sort of thing, who wouldn’t ever have the balls to or perhaps not even the desire to, still want to see it. Whether people admit it or not, there is a side to everyone that wants to witness things that are almost impossible to imagine, let alone see. The genius of snuff is not its existence but rather its universal appeal. While totally repugnant, it is still more enticing than the filthiest porn.”

“I suppose you’re right there.”

“It’s a more wonderful form of praise, isn’t it? All those Hollywood cunts make these shitbath pictures. They make trophies for each other and it’s all just a good show. But on the streets, on the lips of every one, pervert or priest, are the names of the nasties, the bloody snuffs. That’s fuckin’ glory there.”


We were at her apartment, in the shower so we wouldn’t get blood on her bed sheets. I’d punctured her neck and I was feasting on her like a vampire while she caressed my testicles, sinking her nails into the sack. I was using her favorite of my fingers on her: the nub.

“Truth,” I said, her blood on my lips.

She opened her eyes, confused. “What’s that then?”

“Truth,” I repeated, giving her a telling stare.

Now she understood. She knew the question we’d left off on, back when our relationship was just starting.

“Right then,” she moaned, “how’d you lose the finger?”

“I chopped it off with a hatchet.”

She began grinding her pelvis into my hand.

“You see,” I continued, “there are all kinds of fetishes. I’d heard about one that makes it so some people can’t have an orgasm unless something is being amputated. I don’t have this problem, as you well know. But I was curious about the condition.”

“So you went for it. That’s so ballsy, baby.”

“That’s not the whole story,” I said. “It took a lot for me to build up the nerve to do it. But I was alone. I had no sexual partner for months. My movies and my masturbation were all I had. You already know about my boyhood fixation on Madeline Smith.”

“Oh yes, the Bond-girl.”

“Right,” I said. “Well, my obsession with her never left me, only escalated. During those lonely months, I grew sick over her. I pulled a Van Gogh, you might say. I chopped off the finger as a tribute. I’d planned to mail it to her for Valentine’s Day.”

“Did you?”


“But why?” she asked as if heartbroken.

“After the excitement of hacking it off, I began to think more clearly. Most women would panic if they received a finger in the mail. The police would be notified. It might all lead back to me.”

“So do you still have the finger?”

“Well, I knew I couldn’t preserve it for long, and I was too embarrassed by the idea of rushing to the emergency room to have it reattached. Besides, it had been a profound moment in my life and I wanted it to stay severed, the nub being a reminder of the madness I’d reached. But I didn’t want to just toss the finger. I wanted to keep it, but not frozen or something stupid like that. So, that night, I ate it.”

For a moment we both fell silent. She stared at me. “What was it like to do that?”

“While I felt like I’d hit rock bottom, at the same time I felt liberated.”

“Just like watching snuff.”

“Exactly, only better because I was involved.”

We fell silent again as she stared at me with those animal eyes. It was then that I realized that she had fallen in love with me as well.

“Alex, darling.” “Yes?”

“I want to make a movie with you.”


We watched the video together while she soaked her foot in ice. She’d taken a few painkillers and was doing fine. The video had come out good, Violet doing an excellent job filming. Her hand didn’t even shake much as I’d severed her toe, even though she screamed. Watching myself eat it made me feel about the same as I’d felt earlier while actually eating it. I was into it, but it wasn’t the same as when I had eaten my finger. Something was lacking, flaccid.

“We’re off to a great start,” Violet said. “But it needs more. A little cannibalism goes a long way, but we need to get things in perspective.”

“I’ve been trying to come up with ideas but nothing’s struck me, you know? Rape, torture, murder; it’s all been done.”

We sat there thinking as we watched. And just like that, something came to me.

“You’ve given a toe,” I said. “Now it’s my turn.”

“All right, but no more toes,” she said, “we don’t want to be redundant.”


From my point of view, I filmed her on her knees before me, performing fellatio. We got typically kinky with it, the deep-throating and cheek smacking. Then up came the dagger. She teased me, scraping the shaft. Then, she ever so slowly began to cut away a small section of my erection’s flesh, not anything like a castration, just shaving a section of skin. She did this and then sucked on it in a frenzy before chewing the striped flesh.

I exploded in her face as she ate me, and it was the most intense orgasm of my life.

I knew then what had been missing when I had devoured her toe. It wasn’t so much the eating of human flesh that excited me: it was having my own flesh eaten. Eating myself was nauseating bliss, but being devoured by a beautiful woman was the sweetest fetish of all.

And Valentine’s Day was drawing nearer.

After I’d been bandaged and we’d watched the tape with fervor, I told Violet my epiphany of the ultimate gesture of love.

“Snuff is redundant because it’s all murder,” I said. “What if, instead of a victim, there was a willing participant?”

“Holy hell,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

“It would add levels of depravity, horror and fetishism the likes of which the world has never seen. Think of it: a film where someone willingly dies, and even enjoys it. Better yet, instead of a pretty woman being snuffed by insane men, we have an insane man being snuffed by a pretty woman. The man is not just killed, but eaten alive. Not just by the woman, but by himself too.”


Strapped to the slab, I lay beneath Violet who rides me, films me, shreds me. The agony and ecstasy are one, an insufferable heaven. I am in thrall, but my most erotic nightmare has come true, so I am free. The feel of her fingers twisting in my abdomen is as wonderful as the feeling of my erection that now spews inside her. This is the masterpiece we give to the world, our blessing of sickness bestowed upon the already infected.

Violet agreed with my final wishes and is going to complete the film on her own. The porno-snuff footage we’ve shot will be put together in a montage of our best moments then the film will build up to this scene where I am willingly eaten alive. The remainder of the film will be Violet first having whatever sex she can with my corpse, then a thorough dismemberment, and finally, the cooking and eating of my remains. She will then edit a rough final cut and send free copies to all of the people I have listed on my hard drive, my records of all the customers I’ve had for my horror and porno films: the nasties. Once completed, close to a thousand people will have an authentic snuff film and, as anyone in the underground film business knows, the circulation won’t stop there.

Violet’s face appears on the film, and I’ve suggested she blur it, but she insisted on leaving it in for the integrity of the film. She doesn’t care if its release might put her in prison. The trial would see more exposure than the O.J. Simpson case. It would all just hype the movie up even more.

I can feel death tightening as Violet pushes my intestines into my mouth. As everything goes black I taste a flavor that is the true so-called nectar of the gods; I chew with what little energy I have left.

She bends down and her mouth drips blood as she whispers into my ear: “I love you, darling. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

This is the proudest achievement of our lives. This is the outcome of our desires.

This is the very pinnacle of our art.

The End

The Devouring first appeared in D.O.A. II. Since the publication, Triana has quickly established himself as a genre-leading author, taking "extreme" horror to a new level. His novel Body Art has been translated into two languages and there is even an adult coloring book based off of the plot.

Discover more about Kristopher Triana and his work.


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