Part XXVI
Don’t be fooled.
It may look cute, with its big round eyes and fluffy hair.
But it’s a menace.
Pure evil--in mokimon form.
Most mokimon evolve in predictable ways.
Marmander evolves into Marmillion evolves into Marizard.
A little salamander…into a midsized chameleon…into a very, very big fire-breathing lizard.
But the mokimon Obo works a bit differently.
Give it a magical smiley stone, and it evolves into the cherubic Bassoony.
But give it a magical frowny stone, and it evolves into the demonic Clarinetta.
Clarinetta lurks in the shadows, ready to strike. Clarinetta is eminently ready, making people stub their toes and lose their keys at the most inopportune of moments. Nothing pleases Clarinetta as deeply as the Parcheesi blockade effect of two slow trucks side by side on a two-lane road, plugging the traffic flow to a foul grind. Even generally normal drivers, when corrupted by Clarinetta, will slow down to a maddening, leisurely pace, particularly if they are in front of you are on the way to the airport. You thought the train track crossing through the road had been retired, but Clarinetta giggles at the thought of proving you wrong.
Clarinetta doesn’t mind delaying the flight—but only when you are past the gates.
Once you know, it changes how you see the world.
In life, there is no bad luck.
There is only Clarinetta.
---
I bang the cellar door.
The sky is mottled with clouds, obscuring half the stars. I hug my jacket around myself.
A minute later, Chris opens it a crack. He’s shirtless, with profuse sweat running down his chest. “Oh…” he says, pausing to read my face. “It’s you.”
His eyes dart around in the space behind me. Then, he swings the door out, so that it smashes back into the house.
“What was that for?” I ask.
Chris shrugs, beckoning me inside.
I step over the threshold and Chris closes the door behind me, making sure it is locked twice.
He looks like he has regained about half his swagger.
He gestures for me to walk down the steps first, then he follows after.
“What were you up to?” I ask.
“Working out,” Chris says. “I’ve been working twice as hard ever since…” he trails off. Then, he flashes a half-smile. “I’m sorry I left, that day, you know.”
“Whatever.”
“Seriously! I’m sorry, okay?”
“What would you different?” I ask, my voice flat.
“Win.” He turns his head. “Or at least—get you out of there.”
He plops down onto the couch, and I wait, standing a few feet away. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can help you work out, if you’d like.”
Chris rolls his eyes. “Sit down, Travis.” He pats the couch cushion next to him.
I sink into the seat, and he switches on Big Bang Brothers, passing me a controller.
We play for a few minutes, but I get the feeling he is toying with me.
“Why are you here?”
“To not be alone.”
“And Zane?”
“I’m not allowed to be with him right now. Not until I have enough money.”
“What?”
“I spent all of Sunday, running around town, looking everywhere I could to find work. I have some time now that I quit wrestling. They had an opening at Melt, the sandwich shop, and today was my first day.”
“Why does Zane care whether you have money or not? He’s not exactly used to being pampered.”
“He’s broke.”
“So—you’re like—his breadwinner?”
“I will be.”
“And you’ll pay for the privilege of his presence?”
“That looks to be the game.”
“You’ll work without making money for yourself,” Chris says, frowning. “You’re his slave.”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck that,” Chris says, tossing his controller to the side, abandoning the match. He grabs my head, pushing it into the couch cushions, holding one of my arms behind my back. I feel his body weight on me. Sweat mucks up my clothes. “WHERE IS HE?” Chris asks in a harsh whisper.
The game music idles on, unaware our focus has shifted.
“What?” I whimper.
“Where is Zane?”
“I don’t know…”
“Something funny happened the other day,” Chris says. “Brett swung by. The night after he went to the drive-in with you. We played video games for a while, but his eyes kept flickering toward my leg. Eventually, he just reached out and grabbed my quad, looking me in the eye. Then, without a word, he sunk down to his knees.”
I gulp.
“Any idea why Brett would do that? I’ve known him for as long as I can remember, and he’s never so much as looked at me funny before. Suddenly, he’s…”
“Did you fuck him?”
“Well, you sure as hell haven’t been available.” Chris puts me in a headlock, hissing in my ear. “I called Brett, you know. The day you and Calvin were trapped at the Wombach house. The day I—lost. I’m the one who got him to check in on you.”
“You sent him to oblivion,” I croak. “Zane broke him. Zane got him begging to be fucked. He got him to flaunt his ass, bucking around in the faggot pussy position. Then Zane pounded him like there was no tomorrow. Pretty sure Brett’s got a taste for jock cock now. And he couldn’t pass up the chance to be with you…because you fit the bill.”
“Shit,” Chris says. “Oh, shit. And Calvin wasn’t at wrestling today either. I’m pretty sure he’s quitting, just like you did. We’ll lose the whole JV team if this keeps up. Damn it. I thought—Brett could save you guys—in a way I couldn’t. Instead…it looks like I’ll have to after all.”
“If he failed, you might fail. Brett’s a few rungs above you, isn’t he? Or at least, he was…”
“He sure as hell isn’t now.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got to put an end to this.”
“Don’t develop some sort of hero complex. I’m sick of people assuming I want them to rescue me.”
“I—I miss you, you know.”
I shake my head. “It’s been a long time since you held the key to my heart.”
Chris digs his nails into me. “He uses you as a toilet, Travis.”
I pout.
“How can he do this to you? How can he make you so dependent on him, then forbid you from spending time with him? Is he trying to weaken you more? Is he trying to weaken me?”
My eyes are still buried in the cushions, so I close them, then turn my head to the side, so my words will be less muffled. “Let’s say I were to walk, and every once in a while, he would note the inverse of the number of miles I had walked. One over ten. One over one hundred. One over a million. The number would get closer and closer to zero, without ever quite reaching it. That’s how it is with Zane. He stretches me further and further, thinner and thinner, without ever quite annihilating me.”
I try to clear my throat, which is still gravelly where Chris’s arm is digging into it.
“But Zane grows bored with me, because the challenge I present is so marginal. A great checkers player wants always to win, but they find less joy in dominating someone unworthy of the endeavor.”
“So what then? He sees me as worthy of being broken?”
“I’m sure he does,” I croak. “Is it the worst thing? Maybe Brett’s happier now. Not so worried about being turned into a pillar of salt. He couldn’t know his true colors…he couldn’t know where to put his faith…until he experimented.”
“Get out,” Chris says.
“But I thought you had grown out of abandonment?”
“GET OUT.”
Chris releases me. I take one look in his eyes, then scamper up the creaky stairs. I unlock the door, my heartbeat thumping along. Then, I launch myself into the blanket of fog, my pathway checkered halfheartedly with the feeble light of the moon.
---
The flip side of Clarinetta is Bassoony.
It is said that God created the first Bassoony on the sixth day, using man as something of a rough draft.
Bassoony was the one who convinced God that he deserved Sunday off, encouraging him to take a bit of time to himself.
Historically, it’s in God’s honor that people take the Sabbath off work. This constitutes a tradition that secular people rarely call into question. In that sense, Bassoony is indirectly responsible for the concept of weekends.
Thanks, Bassoony.
Glad you did that.
---
The next day is much the same. Instead of wrestling or ceramics after school, I head straight to Melt. About half way through my shift, they let me make myself a sandwich. That’s a boon. It means I can avoid dinner with my parents.
By the time I get home, it’s already late. Tomorrow—I should have enough cash for Zane.
I roll over his instructions in my mind. He shouldn’t have asked me to provoke Chris like that, especially with all that’s happened. It’s too much to ask…
I sneak quietly into my room, avoiding my parents’ customary interrogation about my day. I try to silence my slinking thoughts.
There are far fewer clouds tonight.
My room is a prison of moonlight, broken up by the gridlines on my window. The splintered light falls on the walls, the ceiling and the floor, painting it like a cellblock. I clench my eyes shut.
Sleep. I have to sleep. The uncertainty tugs at my brain, keeping me awake. The house is creaking.
I need to relax.
I pull down my princess underwear. Zane said absolutely no coming—but teasing is forgivable, right?
I think of Zane flexing for me, drawing me in, and kissing me on the lips. He holds my head, spitting into my open mouth. I moan softly, rubbing my balls. My mouth falls open and I bite my tongue at the corner of my lips. The warped moonlight catches my eyes; the vision of Zane blanches; the notion of Chris hovers.
“Dammit, Chris,” I whisper. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”
I pull one leg into the air and my asshole gapes open slightly. The plug starts to slide out. I had almost grown accustomed to it. I smirk. I grab the plug and start sliding it in and out of my ass.
“Chris,” I whimper, reliving the scene when he shoved me into the couch. I shake my head. “Just give it up.”
My disdain for him is hazier when I’m half asleep.
His arms close around me. The fuzz near his hairline is spiky yet soft—I want to run my fingers through it; I want to feel it prickle my skin…
His golden eyes warm me up like firelight. His frustrating smile…
He has strength. I know he does.
The question is…does he have guts?
I feel the draft, rustling the curtains, like a whisper, a question, hanging in the air.
How to guide a stream, as it cuts its way into the heart of the mountain?
Maybe I’ll let Chris win—tonight.
“Chris,” I whisper. “Don’t be mad at me for talking about Zane.”
I close my eyes, smelling the sweat rising of Chris’s body as he pins me down.
“But if you’re the alpha, then why don’t you prove it?” I whisper, twisting the plug up my ass. “You had me pinned down. You coulda broke my slave pussy open. Mmn, fuck…”
I feel a hand my mouth. I start to kiss and suck it. I moan, pumping the plug harder into my hole.
A bolt of shock crackles from my head to my toes.
It’s real!
There’s somebody in my room.
Oh my God…
He grips my face around the mouth, looming over me in the dark.
I start squirming and flailing; my squeals are muffled by the hand. My heartbeat hastens.
“Shut up, bitch.”
A cloud shifts and I can see the moonlight on his face. I relax and close my mouth. He moves his hand down from my mouth to my chest.
“Chris!” I whisper.
He smirks.
“How did you get in?” I croak.
Chris spins a key-chain around the finger of his other hand. I see the Penrose Triangle.
Chris puts the keys down on my nightstand. He strips off his clothes, flexing absentmindedly. His muscles glint in the patchwork light.
“Chris—“ I whisper. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Really? You mean I shouldn’t prove how much of an alpha male I am? I shouldn’t pin you down and fuck your slave pussy?”
“Shit, Chris…”
He crawls into bed and lifts my other leg into the air, nodding towards me with a cocky look. “Hold your legs up for me.”
I wrap my arms around my legs so they won’t move. “Chris—you are not supposed to be here!”
He leans in and drops his lips into mine. “That wasn’t what you were saying a minute ago.”
He pulls the plug out of my ass and my mouth falls open; he plunges his tongue inside my mouth and I suck on it softly; he positions his cock against my hole, rubbing it around in slow circles.
He unlocks his lips from mine.
“Tell me what you want,” Chris says. He wraps his arms around me, the head of his big cock waiting against my hole.
I can’t find the words through my shallow breathing.
I know what I’m supposed to say.
I finally summon a gravelly whisper from somewhere inside me.
“Fuck me.”
His arms flex around me and he plunges his cock inside.
“Oh hell,” I whimper.
“You like my cock inside you?” he asks. He leans in and his warm lips graze mine again. I suck on them softly.
A surreal haze fills the room, pierced by a shaft of moonlight.
“Mmn,” I whisper, biting down on his lips.
“You fantasize about me when you jack off?” Chris asks, a touch of surprise in his voice.
“Shut up.”
He smirks and nibbles my tongue. Then he suspends his right arm behind his head, cupping his ear. He flexes his arm inches from my face.
I lean forward and lick his bulging arm. I drop kisses across his biceps, nibbling his nipple, before burying my face into the valley of his chest muscles. He pumps himself up; stretching my jaw. His cock burrows deeper into my ass as his body hardens. I suck the salty sweat off of him. My mouth explores his vein-lined pectorals, treading closer and closer to his musky pit. His arm is still draped around me; he kneads my shoulder before gripping the back of my head.
I dare to imagine him shoving my face inside; I sniff his pit, my breath rattling.
But then he tilts my head back, making me look into his eyes.
“Too dirty?” I say, gulping back saliva.
He starts wheeling his cock in and out of my hole. I whimper.
He smirks, ignoring the question, before pulling back, his cockhead lingering at the cusp of my hole. I feel empty; my face is cold with Chris’s sweat.
“I’m your dream guy?” Chris asks.
What makes an idol false?
And what makes an idol true?
You can’t always decide
What choice is up to you?
My open-mouthed breathing is ragged.
Chris snarls and shoves my kneecaps into my pecs. My accessible ass points up, waiting defenselessly. Chris impales me with his cock.
I look into his eyes, ignoring his question right back.
He grips my neck, tracing the indentation where the collar had been, before thumbing my lip.
“He was trying to brand you. Do you remember? He was going to tattoo you. I stopped it. Are you glad I stopped it? Or would you like to be marked…as property?”
I nibble Chris’s fingers as they brush over my lips.
He pushes down on my tongue, leans in, and bites my neck hard. He sucks on it. I whimper and flail, and he bucks hard into my shaking ass until I go limp.
“There. We’ll see what Zane thinks of that when we see him tomorrow.”
“Chrikh,” I whimper.
“What?” he asks, a tremor rolling through his deepened voice. He pulls his hand out of my mouth and wipes it off on my chest, smirking. Then he chomps down on my nipple.
I squeal. I hope to God my parents don’t hear.
Chris clamps my mouth shut, wrapping his other arm around me. I feel his muscles tighten and tense; I smell the sweat of his last workout mixing with this one, the vapor filling the room.
He starts pounding me roughly, stretching deeper and deeper inside me, exposing tender places. Believing it safe, he navigates his hand away from my mouth, cradling my cheek.
“Fuck Chris,” I whimper. “I—I don’t know if I can take it.”
The prison of moonlight plays against his face. He flashes a shadowy half-smile, moves his arm, and teases me with his bristled armpit again.
I breathe slowly, closing my eyes, sniffing his dense sweat.
I lick the air, not quite reaching it, before nibbling my tongue.
He snarls, pulling me in till the salty, warm musk restricts my face.
I bathe it in tongue as he continues to clout my ass.
I slurp down all the pit sweat I can collect while the rest laminates my nose and brow.
He tugs on my hair, tightening his lock around my head.
Chris turns so he can suck on my ear, my face still entrenched in his pit. I drag my tongue about, slowly moaning.
He licks; he slowly blows inside. “Can we just forget it all—all the bullshit, all the mistakes, all the stupid people and things in the whole world?” He releases my head; I sink back into the pillow. “Can’t we just forget it all?”
“I don’t think so,” I whisper.
“Why not?”
“For starters—I’m not sure I like you.”
“Sure,” Chris says, batting my rock-hard dick. It bounces against my stomach before standing treacherously erect.
“You haven’t been there for me.”
“I sure as hell am here now though, right?”
“I hate you,” I whisper softly. “I hate you for what you did. And even more for what you didn’t.”
“Then—why let me fuck you?” The gilded sparkle in his eyes splinters through the shadows.
“Zane says—hatred is a way of defending yourself—from yearning. And what I’ve wanted—what I’ve always wanted—“
I surprise myself as I think it. Not Chris. Not Zane. Not even Calvin.
“Is--to be—good enough.”
Chris stops thrusting for a moment, wrapping his arms around me tightly, his eyes inches from mine. For a moment, I just look into the pools of his eyes, into the shadowy ocean that seems to go on and on, endlessly penetrable, and yet, still, withholding of secrets.
“What ever made you feel you weren’t?”
You did.
But that’s wrong, I realize.
I let it happen. I’d been fed a narrative. And I devoured that narrative. Self-esteem; Manifest Destiny; dream to climb, rise above all the others, be the best of them all.
And, when that didn’t match what was happening, I cried. I let myself become the victim of a dead dream; I’d lived a nightmare.
The dissonance between expectation and reality was tethered together by desire, but not the one that society had prescribed for me.
I never wanted to prove myself in the first place. I’d been brainwashed and heckled into it.
I only ever wanted to give.
I pull Chris into me, breathing in his ear. “Harder, stud.”
“And risk losing control?” he asks, his voice bending.
“I’ve always been a bit of a gambler.”
He looks at me like he is just seeing me. The moonlight breaks along the windowpane before skipping across his eyes. He snarls.
He batters my ass hard; I feel his balls compact against my skin; his cock stretches the tunnel of my ass; his chest pulses over me; he flexes around me.
“Fuck!” I whimper.
Chris barrels on. He hits the sweet spot of my ass; light flashes in front of my eyes; clarity stings…
“Please—Zane said I’m not supposed to cum—I’m so close, Chris…”
Chris smirks. “He did?” He leans in and sucks on my lips, pushing his tongue into my mouth and playing with mine until it droops.
He hammers me; I gasp--his cock stretches me; reworks me; opens me.
“God Chris—I—damn it—you bastard—”
My ass starts to clench; my balls draw up; Chris humps me like an animal; sweat drips off his body and falls onto mine; my mouth is wide open; I bite down on my tongue again; I close my eyes; I can’t believe it; oh my fucking God…
The first rope of cum shoots out so hard that it hurts. With a stab of guilt, I grip my dick to prevent it from expanding too painfully. Another strand of cum follows, and then another, painting my chest. Chris grunts, thrusting one last time before burying his cock into my ass as deep as it could go.
I whimper as I feel him shoot deep inside me, stretching me to places I’ve never been. My eyes shift; everything is hazy. I bite my lip; my legs shake. I start to lower them slowly; I wrap my arms around Chris and pull him in for a kiss.
He allows it, but not for long.
When he pulls back, he cocks an eyebrow, reaches his fingers into the pool of cum at my chest, and brings it to my lips.
I slurp it down.
Chris chuckles. “Your problem isn’t that you aren’t good enough. If anything, you are too good.”
He pulls out and I gasp. My dead legs collapse onto the bed. I snuggle into Chris; he wraps his arms around me again and nibbles on my ear, running his hand through my hair.
My thoughts cloud over as I slip into sleep.
---
If you lose then you are a bitch. That’s a vulnerable, depressing feeling. But if you get fucked afterwards, you get to be someone’s bitch. And that’s my favorite feeling. Being under the wing of a man, in the shadow of his power and the protection it affords.
Moonlight glances through the window, and I open a wary eye.
I’m alone.
Maybe it was all a dream. I stare at the light-woven ceiling.
A sweet dream.
But then I see it.
The Penrose Triangle keychain is on the nightstand.
I flip on the black light that I use as a guide when I have to take a piss. I gaze into the rainbow prism of the keychain, watching the violet light fracture and play on the walls.
The eye of the storm. That’s where I am, till Zane’s tempest takes me again.
I turn away—but then a needle runs down my spine.
An image is staring up at me from across the room. A monkey, drawn in pure light, with its hands over its mouth.
I rub my eyes, trying to shake away the hallucination.
But it’s not going away. I climb out of bed, the twinge in my ass confirming I’ll need a day or two to recover. As I float across the room, I see that the image is engraved on the cover of the book Hiro gave me of Escher’s pictures.
He’d drawn it in invisible ink—so the others wouldn’t see it before he gave it to me. He knew I kept the black light in my room, back from when he used to come over sometimes. The black light he’d given me years ago, to spook passerby of Calvin’s haunted garage each Halloween.
I rifle through it, finding his little witticisms written in invisible ink here and there.
Some are soothing, like music.
“Ten persons, ten colors.”
Some make me roll my eyes.
“Fall down seven times, stand up eight.”
Others make me laugh.
“Even monkeys fall.”
He’d explained that last one to me before. Monkeys are very good at climbing trees, you see. But no one, not even a monkey, is flawless.
A few lonely names streak the pages. Henry Beecher. Iwazaru. Jen Li.
I close the book, clutching it to my chest like a smiley stone.
Then I set it down next to my keychain, flipping off the light, ready to ignore the moon and get some real sleep at last.
---
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Email: krazytop@gmail.com
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Tuesday, November 15, 2016
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Taste of Power, Part 25
Disclaimer: Don't do anything stupid, this is a krazy story, not a how-to manual, etc. If in doubt about things, I find it always helps to ask.
---
Part XXV
Einstein said the greatest genius of his era was Jean Piaget.
Jean Piaget studied people over different phases of their life.
Piaget’s found that growing up isn’t a progression; it isn’t like stacking slides on an overhead projector till you see the whole picture.
People, during different phases of their life, look at the world differently. Logic means something different. They have different ideas of what matters, about what is worth focusing on.
In this sense, people are more like different versions of themselves nested inside one another.
Like layers of rock in a mountain.
And when a drop of water hits the peak, it’s the slightest nudge that decides among the web of potential divergent paths. Paths that call on different snapshots of history, and cook up their own realities with them.
People are not built to understand what they used to be. Even if they can regress at a moment’s notice.
People are certainly not built to understand what they will become. Even if the progression is imminent.
As a consequence, open-mindedness isn’t just about accepting different people, but about accepting different versions of yourself.
---
“Did you enjoy your movie?”
Zane asks the question softly, standing in nothing but his jockstrap, his muscles carving out shadows that streak in little canals from the doorway he opened.
I gape at him. Perhaps due to my promise not to warn him, or my shock, or my lack of initiative, I’m unable to get out any words.
“Sure did,” Brett says, turning and springing to his feet. The coffin door starts to tremble and whine in the corner of the room, and then several things happen in a chaotic storm.
Zane retreats back, twisting to flee; Brett slams him into the cabinet before he can escape.
Calvin tries to climb out of the coffin; but I barrel over to it, throwing myself on top of it, jamming it shut.
The snake rake falls to the floor, clinking against the cement. The handcuffs drop moments later, splaying out just to the side of the lock pick.
“What are you doing??” Calvin asks, his voice muffled. “What the HELL?”
Across the room, Zane and Brett’s scuffle has migrated to the floor, with Zane squirming underneath Brett’s mammoth form. A fully-fledged, muscle-bound college student is giving Zane hell. Brett’s a bit bigger and a bit more sophisticated and it’s making for a stacked fight.
I reach down, grappling for the handcuffs, and shackle the coffin door shut. Then I trudge to my feet, stealing a glance back as Calvin pounds vainly against the coffin door. The cuffs strain but hold fast, giving Calvin a tiny window into what’s happening.
“Travis—help!” Zane growls.
“This is your chance,” Brett says, sounding about half as winded. “Use the rope. Let’s tie him up.”
“He’s hurting me,” Zane says.
“Shut the fuck up,” Brett whispers.
I stand over them for a fraction of a second, gathering myself as I sink to my knees.
I feel the draft in my fingertips.
The wind can blow a single drop of rain this way or that.
Deciding the way the stream will rise. Deciding the way the avalanche will fall.
The course of the future in the palm of my hands.
I feel the chill spread through my body.
I push Brett off Zane with all my strength.
He budges slightly, which is all Zane needs to wiggle free.
“What are you doing, Travis?” Brett says, his eyes bulging.
I grab Brett’s arm; Zane grabs the other; we thrust our combined weight on top of him.
“Travis. Think about what you are doing!”
I stare blankly at him.
“No…” he says, his voice fading.
We ram his shoulders to the floor.
“Travis!”
Zane leans forward and gives Brett a soft kiss on the lips, shocking him into silence. Then Zane draws back, leering at him. “Good to see you, Wombat.”
“Can’t say the same.”
“How about I flip you onto your stomach? Then you can avert your eyes.”
Brett isn’t easy to work with, but his advantages over Zane have become immaterial with me in the mix.
We pin him to his stomach.
“Jab your knee into his neck so he can’t move,” Zane says, who presses his legs into Brett’s thighs.
I shove my knee into Brett’s neck, making him sputter, holding onto his wrists.
Zane ties them tight.
“Hold him there.”
I curl up on top of Brett’s back.
Zane scowls down at Brett, letting the silence wash over, before finally letting out a laugh. He prods Brett’s face with his foot. “So was this the plan, Wombat?”
Brett closes his eyes.
Zane pouts and turns his head. “Is that Calvin over there in the corner?”
The coffin is shut now. It sits stationary, silent.
Zane whistles, waltzing over to it and dragging it towards the middle of the garage by the cuffs, his biceps bulging to their limits, with Calvin bouncing around inside.
“Dumbasses. What’ll it take?” Zane turns to me. “Grab Wombat by his legs.”
Tingles course through my body. I’m light on my feet.
I clench Brett’s legs and Zane pulls on his hair as we lift him into the air.
“On top,” Zane says, nodding, and we slam Brett down on the coffin lid containing his little brother.
“Please,” Brett says softly. “Travis… please.”
“It’s me you should be begging,” Zane says, tapping Brett on the cheek.
“What are you going to do?”
Zane smiles, turning away from Brett and focusing his icy eyes on me. “Strip down.”
I peel off my pajamas, tossing them in a heap. The garage air is stale, but still a bit cold. Goosebumps grow along my arms.
“Faggot pussy position,” Zane says.
I sink to the floor, bow my face to the cement, and jut my ass into the air.
“Crawl to me.”
I crawl forward slowly till my face is buried in Zane’s feet.
Zane waits, letting Brett soak in the scene.
My locked lips tremble as I swallow back my own drool.
“Kiss my feet, cundango.”
I open my mouth, planting my wet lips on Zane’s foot, closing softly, sucking and tonguing up the grungy taste. I roll my tongue between his toes, my lips making smacking noises as I root out all the flavor.
Zane pulls me up by the hair, forcing me to look past his bulging black jockstrap, his sweat-stricken, heaving muscles, and into his piercing green eyes.
“You’ve been a good bitch,” Zane says, thumbing my chin.
“Thank you, master,” I say.
“Go ahead and improvise a bit,” Zane says, inflating his chest out and leaning back into Brett’s legs.
There’s no greater reward than this.
I press my face into fabric surrounding Zane’s balls, nuzzling into them. Then I lock my mouth around the imprint of his cock, slowly ratcheting up the intensity of my sucking lips. I savor every second I get to fawn over his cock and balls.
I move to pull down his jockstrap, but Zane bats my hand away.
“Later. I promise,” Zane says. “Right now, I’ve got to plant my flag in some new territory.”
“No,” Brett says weakly.
“Yes,” Zane says.
“You—you wouldn’t. Not without my say-so,” Brett says.
“Don’t be presumptuous. It’s a bad color on a faggot.”
“I’m not a faggot!”
“Neither was your brother. Supposedly. Before I turned him. I bet you’ll be even easier.”
“You want a bet?” Brett asks. “Really?”
“Nah.”
“I--I’d bet you can’t even make me hard,” Brett says softly.
“Well…fuck, Brett. What do you have to offer me?”
“Cooperation.”
Zane taps his fingernails on the coffin. “And if I were to lose?”
“You let me go.”
“I’ll give you seven minutes,” Zane says, rubbing Brett’s shoulders.
Zane flip Brett onto his back.
THUMP.
“No touching my dick, ass, or mouth,” Brett says, his voice wavering. “Nothing gross, nothing that hurts.”
“It strikes me that you are in no position to make rules,” Zane says, pulling off Brett’s shorts and boxers.
A sizeable flaccid dick plops into view, draping over Brett’s balls.
“My rules or no bet,” Brett says.
“Rules won’t save you.” Zane unlocks his phone, handing it to me. “Coin—start the fucking timer.”
My ass clenches around the plug as his fingers graze mine. I gape at my Master, then at the faggot I know he’ll soon break.
I start the timer.
A moment later, Zane straddles Brett’s chest, feeling up his pectorals. “You’ve been working out. Must be frustrating to be in this position. All your hard work…for nothing.”
Brett glares at Zane, sparks darting across his eyes, his lips shut tight.
Zane pinches Brett’s nipples. Brett juts out his chest and grates his teeth.
Mirth dances in Zane’s eyes as he rides his way up Brett’s bulging chest, grinding his jock-clad crotch into Brett’s protruding muscles.
He prods Brett’s chin with his package, cradling Brett’s head in his hands. “So, how big does your dick get, when you are hard?”
“Eight inches.”
“Let’s go with seven again. You seem like the exaggerating type.”
“There’s a ruler in the cabinet,” Brett whispers, scowling.
I go to fetch it, finding it in the second drawer next to the tape.
“Feeling anything yet?” Zane asks.
Plain resolution stares back up.
Zane takes a look at Brett’s dick, and I follow his gaze. It hasn’t moved.
“I really don’t do anything for you?” Zane asks, undulating slowly.
“You’re a filthy, arrogant monster,” Brett says evenly. “Your lot doesn’t last in college. In life.”
Zane laughs. “It must be embarrassing…being a COLLEGE STUD—at the mercy of a bratty, dirty high school boy. What are people going to say when you tell them you spent the weekend getting owned and fucked by a grade-school hooligan? Probably that your slutty bottom-boy ass took advantage of an innocent, doe-eyed minor. I just stumbled into this situation, after all.”
Zane’s eyes grow saccharine and big as he bites his lip, massaging Brett’s thighs.
Brett squirms. “Tickles a bit,” he whispers. But Brett’s dick remains stubbornly soft.
“How much time gone?” Zane asks.
“A couple minutes,” I say.
Brett finally cracks a half-smile.
Considering the circumstances, he seems downright lively. “Not much to show for, Zanebrain. Perhaps it’s time for constructive criticism? Your tattoos are weird, your hair is a disgrace, and you need a shower. Oh, and you are a self-absorbed asshole.”
“I suppose I could switch up my strategy,” Zane says shrugging. “Coin! Get over here.”
I hurry to Zane’s side. He dismounts from Brett’s chest.
“Your turn,” Zane says, taking the phone I was using as a timer.
“What is this?” Brett says, his brow furrowing. “Zane!”
I crawl on top of Brett, balancing on the coffin lid with my knees on either side of him, my head level with his chest, breathing slowly.
“Kiss his nipple,” Zane says. He must notice the plug slipping out of my ass, because he rams it back in.
I lower my face into Brett’s big chest, tonguing his nipple once before closing my lips around it with a smack.
“Shit!” Brett says, bucking.
“Hmm,” Zane says. “Now we are getting somewhere.”
I drag my tongue along his chest, dipping into the valley between his pectorals, finding his other nipple.
“TRAVIS!” Brett breathes. “Travis…please…Think about what you are doing!”
“Go ahead and think about it,” Zane says. “How long have you wanted to do this to him?”
“Since—the day—washing—the Mazda. Four—years.”
“And what happened that day?” Zane asks.
“Wet shorts—wanted inside.”
“But he never had the INITIATIVE. He never took CONTROL. You would’ve been a fag for him in a second. All that potential—just fizzled away.”
“Mmm,” I whisper.
“Six inches and change,” Zane muses. “I do hope you weren’t exaggerating too much.”
“TRAVIS. I’m begging you—help me. Please—help me.”
With Brett’s arms tied behind his back, his bristly, dewy armpit is exposed inches from my face.
Zane grabs my head and pushes it inside.
I lap greedily at the oasis, rooting my head around.
“FUCK!” Brett says, bucking out again. “Travis…no,” he whines. “Oh God, no…”
“Eight inches even,” Zane says. “Guess you were being honest. I’m disappointed. You didn’t even make this EXCITING for me.” Zane sighs. “Alright, go ahead and get down now, coin.”
I slide off of Brett, crouching down to the floor.
“And that means—you have to cooperate with my rules,” Zane says. “Which are a bit different.” He grips Brett by the dick, flipping him over again.
“No—fuck—god no,” Brett says, worming away from Zane.
Zane pushes Brett’s face into the coffin with one hand while massaging his ass with the other. “This is a fantastic ass, by the way. So—voluptuous.”
Brett tries and fails to wiggle out from under him. “GET THE FUCK OFF!”
“But you said I could,” Zane said, moving his other hand down, biting his tongue, and kneading Brett’s ass with both hands. “A bet’s a bet.”
“FUCK THAT!”
“You made a promise Brett. What would your parents say, seeing you break your word?”
“They’d rather see that…than see their son sodomized.”
“What century are you from?” Zane asks. He spreads Brett’s ass, eying his hole. “You promised cooperation. I don’t like people who aren’t good for their word. If you are so religious, where is your sense of honor?”
“Calvin’s the honorable one. Get off. Get off. GET OFF.” His eyes grow wet.
“I will. In a manner of speaking,” Zane says. “You are acting pathetic. It’s not my fault you lost. I mean, kind of. But it’s your fault too. You should feel very stupid right now.”
“Travis,” Brett whispers.
Zane slaps his face. “SHUT UP.”
“Travis,” Brett whines again.
Zane grabs Brett by the neck, who makes a hacking noise.
“Zane—please,” I say. “Please—don’t hurt him.”
“Why the fuck not? What do you think he would have done to me?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
Zane releases his hold on Brett. “What would you have done, Wombat? What was your carefully laid PLAN, the one that took all of ten seconds to turn on its head? What were you going to do to me?”
“We just wanted to scare you—honest,” Brett says, his voice cracking. “We were just going to knock some sense into you. I didn’t want to hurt you. I just wanted to scare you.”
“With a bunch of old Halloween junk?” Zane spits, kicking the coffin. “What, do you still think I’m five years old? I don’t believe that for a SECOND. Travis, he just wants me to take it easy!”
I look from Brett to Zane. I crawl back to Zane and lick his foot, then look into his eyes. “Please, master. Don’t hurt him. Please…”
Zane laughs. “What? You want to take over his punishment?”
“Sure,” I say softly, kissing Zane’s ankles.
Zane turns to Brett. “Aren’t you too NOBLE to let this happen? Your brother would never let this fly.”
“I already told you, Calvin’s the good one, not me. Go ahead and punish Travis, see what I care. He’s not even his own person. He’s more like a fucked up prosthetic that you own. A fabricated pile of flesh and bone and muscle that you move with your mind, that does whatever you want.”
“Is that true, coin?” Zane asks.
“Yes Zane,” I say softly. I take a moment to suck on Zane’s toe, and he raises his foot slightly to egg me along. “Sometimes I think my own thoughts. But I’m trying not to, Master.”
“A fucked-up prosthetic. You make him sound so—redundant,” Zane says. “I’ve always fashioned myself a minimalist.”
“A poor boy,” Brett spits.
Zane smirks. “So—Travis. In terms of punishment. How about I cut off your balls?”
The plug prods my ass.
I look up at Zane and he looks down at me, our eyes boring into one another.
Then I shake my head.
“No?” Zane asks. “Hmm. Probably for the best. You might be less fun without that little hormone factory. How about a toe then?”
A toe. Jesus.
Every rational, impulsive, or self-centered node of my brain screams at me.
But another voice whispers too.
Ten toes…that really is a lot. Do I really need all of them?
Do I really need anything?
I’ll still have plenty.
I find myself nodding.
“What the hell?” Brett gasps.
“You still fine with him taking your beating?” Zane asks.
“You aren’t going to go through with it.”
“Is that a CHALLENGE?” Zane asks, leering. “Are you egging me ON? Travis, go get a butcher’s knife. And duct tape, while you are at it.”
Brett’s eyes flash. “You really think you’ll get away with this? People will know it was you, you’re the only one crazy enough to do something like this.”
“I can make Travis say it was his idea.”
“Then they’ll lock you both away,” Brett says.
“And yet—that won’t make you unsee the things you’ve seen.” Zane leans in to Brett’s ear. “You might get nightmares.”
Brett shakes his head as I leave for the kitchen. I return back to silence, lay the tape and knife down at Zane’s feet, and close my eyes, focusing on my breathing.
Does he plan to tape the wound shut?
Wouldn’t he be better off cauterizing it?
Shivers course through me.
“STOP!” Brett says. “Stop,” he repeats slowly.
I sneak a peek. Zane’s brandishing the knife, inches from my feet, a manic expression flooding his face.
“Now or never,” Zane says.
“F--fuck me,” Brett says.
“What was that?” Zane asks.
Brett glares at him.
“FUCK ME.”
“That’s more like it! Travis, duct-tape his mouth shut.”
I slowly rise, clutching the tape.
It makes a honking noise as I peel it off the roll. I rip a strip free. Then, I press it over Brett’s lips, rubbing it into place.
“Get him ready,” Zane says.
I move cautiously towards Brett, my heartbeat thumping. Zane rolls his eyes, grabbing the back of my head, guiding me roughly into Brett’s voluptuous cleavage.
At first I taste a hint of sweet body wash, but I push through that and into the masculine, salty, swamp of Brett’s ass. He keeps it cleaner than Zane, but there’s no mistaking the traces of the kind of man that works out hard and parties harder.
I lick, slowly and softly at first, then rougher, getting inside the hole. Heaven knows it needs to be stretched.
A high-pitched whimper escapes from Brett’s nose.
Slaves built the greatest legacy
The Oroboros line
You can’t make heads or tails
Of devils you divine
Calvin’s muffled, angry voice clamors from inside the box.
“Shut the fuck up in there!” Zane hisses, kicking the coffin again. “One more word, and I swear, you’ll spend the rest of the day swimming in my piss.”
Calvin falls silent.
I tongue Brett’s hole. His meaty, big-boy ass flexes and hugs my face. This might be the strongest ass I’ve seen on a guy—thick muscle distends the skin in obscene spheres.
I lick and prod and nibble and kiss.
I NEVER thought I’d get the chance to taste Brett.
I feel the grip of Master’s fingers on my hair as he forces me to the surface.
“Enough, faggot.”
My tongue lolls out. Zane heaves me toward the floor, and I swivel, facing them, before sinking back into faggot pussy position, gazing up into Brett’s wide eyes.
Zane pulls down his jockstrap, his cock flipping briefly into view. He slides it along the trench of Brett’s ass.
Brett juts his shoulders back, looking at me with an expression of pity. He squirms a bit, but it’s no use.
Zane’s face works its way into view a moment later, just past Brett’s. He does his best to mimic Brett’s typical facial expression, a dorky, cocky simper with big eyes. There is a bit of a resemblance.
But, a second later, their faces could not be more different.
Zane’s mouth drops open in a sick smile; his eyebrows furrow in concentration; his eyes droop in ecstasy as he licks the corner of his lips.
Brett’s head bounces around, his mouth still taped shut, his eyebrows fleeing toward his hairline, his eyes popping halfway out of his skull.
I hear the clap of Zane’s abs against Brett’s ass.
“You are a faggot,” Zane says, nibbling Brett’s ear and playing with his hair. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
For good while, Zane fucks Brett. All I can hear is the slapping, gasping sounds of Zane working himself short of breathe.
I stare into Brett’s eyes as the spark in them slowly fades.
Brett’s on the path to learn what I’ve learned. And he had to learn the hard way, just like me.
Brett had assumed that at some level, I didn’t like the way Zane treats me. But that’s a bit or a mischaracterization.
Zane LET me be—HELPED me be--MADE me be---the cundango faggot no one else would allow me to be. Idealists like Calvin had assumed that freedom would let people prove how good they are, but the cynics see they can just as easily prove any number of things.
Idealism isn’t some moral shelf in the sky. It’s the shelf ideas sit on before they are tested out. Like a virus culture in a petri dish, growing and growing in its little container, shielded from the real world, ready to be used, manipulated, and, eventually, unleashed.
I look into Zane’s eyes, biting my upper lip.
“You wish it was you, coin? Tied up, taped up, getting your slave pussy pounded?”
I nod.
“Get over here.”
I find my feet, walking over to Zane.
“Eat my ass, faggot.”
I sink to my knees behind Zane, before burrowing my face inside. The sharp musk overwhelms me and I almost black out. He tightens his ass around my face, knotting up my tongue as I try to scoop out his flavor. I wait, breathing in his vapor, as his ass slowly unsticks.
Each time he thrusts inside of Brett, his ass clamps down around my face, and I wait, patiently, to be released.
Zane’s voice carries over.
“To take over a Pride, the first thing a lion does is kill the old alpha males. But do you know the second, Brett?”
Zane lets the question hang, gyrating in and out three more times, giving Brett time to answer, as though he somehow could with his mouth taped shut.
“He attacks the babies,” Zane says. “Each mother defends them viciously. But the lion is stronger, so he gets his way. He severs the old Pride’s bloodline. And do you know what the lionesses do, after they mourn?”
FWAP FWAP FWAP.
“What do you think, Travis?”
I pull my face out of Zane’s ass, lapping at his balls. “I don’t know. What do they do, Zane?” I ask in a whisper.
FWAP FWAP FWAP.
“They ovulate. They lie down and jut their pussies up and let the new alpha fuck them. When a bitch gets defeated badly enough, sometimes getting fucked is all it knows to do. That’s what she yearns for—to consecrate the oblivion so she can start over. To be torn down completely so she can rebuild stronger.”
“Stronger? Why stronger?”
FWAP FWAP FWAP.
“Because, faggot, the Alpha proved his cum is best.”
Zane slaps Brett’s face again, and this time, I don’t have the will to stop him. “You understand what happened, don’t you? In another life, you and Calvin might have grown up to marry women and father children. But how can you now? Every time you see an alpha male, you’ll wonder what he’s packing—what it will take to get him to pack your juicy ass with it. You tried to pretend you had no honor, because it was the last card you had to play. But you do have honor. You can’t lie. You’re a FUCKING FAGGOT, just like your bitch of a younger brother. Did Calvin tell you he’s been stealing my jockstraps? So he can jack off, dreaming of me?”
Zane grips Brett’s hair hard, pulling his face into the air, making Brett arch his back and distend his crowning ass. Then, suddenly, he let’s go of Brett’s head.
“I could do this all day. I can maintain this delicious, deep slowness as long as I want. I’ll tell you what—I’ll let you choose when you’re ready for the climax. All you have to do—is get in the faggot pussy position. You saw Travis do it. Don’t be shy.”
For the next few minutes, Zane maintains his pace, biding his time, savoring every second he gets inside Brett’s tight, wet ass, proving his endless control.
Then, slowly, the lump under Zane begins to move.
Brett presses his face down into the coffin, scrunching his body in, and pushing his muscle-bound ass into the air.
Zane palms Brett’s ass before slapping it with both hands. “YES!” he exults, picking up the pace. “Oh, fuck, what a cunt! YES!!” He whimpers. Then he laughs. “You’re all faggots now, and you’ll honor what you are. How could you marry a woman after this?”
Brett starts to whimper and push his ass up, in rebellion or collusion I cannot know; in any case, the appearance and effect is one of utmost submission.
“You know what that means, Travis?” Zane asks, laughing. “I just severed the Wombach bloodline.”
Zane wraps his arms around Brett, flexing as he claims his newest prize.
With four more vicious, thumping, thrusts, Zane buries his cock balls-deep up Brett’s newly minted cunt.
I circle back around, looking into Brett’s eyes, where the spark has long since died. It seems to have been stolen by Zane, whose green eyes twinkle as he flashes me a crooked smile.
Brett hangs his head.
“You’re a bastard, Zane.”
The muffled voice comes from inside the box that Brett is splayed out on.
Zane pulls out of Brett, who shudders and collapses back on the coffin. Zane lingers beside the coffin, turning his gaze on me.
“Lift the lid,” Zane says.
I push the lid up. Brett slides off, landing on the floor in a heap.
“I’m good for my word,” Zane says, glaring into the gap. “Unlike your bitch of big bro.”
Then he points his cock at the gap, the slit in the head glinting.
A moment later, I see the glittering stream flow forth. I hear it bouncing around the inside of the coffin, trickling and pattering here and there.
He shakes his cock, letting out a few last stray beads, before snapping his jockstrap back into place. I hear him kick the knife over to Brett.
“Go ahead and cut yourself free, fag. I’m sure you’ll want to clean this mess up before your parents get home.” Zane slams the coffin lid shut. “Let’s go, coin. I don’t want to be here anymore.”
I look at my pajamas, unsure if I should even ask.
“Don’t bother,” Zane says. He scoops them up for me. Then we sweep out of the garage and back into the house, the door sticking shut behind us.
Zane gestures for me to follow him out the front door, baring his teeth in an almost smile.
---
I look around as I walk outside, feeling the air prickle my body. Luckily, there’s no one near us.
We hop in on opposite sides of Zane’s truck.
“What if someone sees us?” I ask.
Zane starts the engine, then presses the gas. “They’ll see two shirtless, muscular teens with buzz cuts. They might not catch that you are naked. They’ll probably mistake us for friends. Two badass bros, hanging out.”
I chew on my tongue, saying nothing as the tires skid along the streets.
“I suppose you can hide if you want to,” Zane says.
“Where?”
“Here.” Zane grips the back of my head and forces it into his crotch, his cock and balls imprinting my face through the jockstrap. “Clean my junk.”
I pull his waistband away from his body far enough to free his cock.
Merely holding it in my hands has quite an impact on me.
It’s warm to the touch, and fierce looking. If I pay close attention, I can sense his heartbeat. His cock starts to thicken in my palm, demanding more intense affection.
“Go on,” Zane says, gripping the back of my head and pushing down.
There are some skid marks from Brett’s ass on Zane’s cock, swirled up with a shell of cum.
I close my mouth around Zane’s cockhead, breaking down the dried cum, tasting hints of Brett’s musk mixed in.
Zane puppeteers my head with one hand while he steers the truck with the other.
The noises of slime rolling around my mouth is drowned out by the noise of the engine revving.
This drags on for a few minutes, his cock finally prodding the back of my throat. Suddenly, everything goes dark.
Zane pulls my head up, and through the rear-view mirror, I see the garage door trundling down, boxing us in.
“Home sweet home,” Zane says.
He hops out of the truck and I follow suit.
Zane’s garage is almost empty. No more than three boxes sit on the shelves.
I stop looking around, staring at my feet instead. It is too dark to see much anyway.
I follow Zane into the house. He never bothers to put his cock away, so it bounces around as he walks, in a way I find a bit too precarious for my liking.
He collapses back onto the couch, his cock pointing straight up into the air. He stares blankly at the ceiling.
I crouch down in front of him. “You’re bruised,” I says softly. Little purple marks blemish his skin where Brett had slammed him into wood and concrete. I close my mouth around one of them, then another, peppering them with wet kisses.
“That was close,” Zane says. “If you hadn’t… If you hadn’t been able to help me…”
A bit of my hair is sweaty and stuck to my forehead. Zane pushes it up slowly.
“It’s okay to depend on others sometimes,” I say, before kissing a bruise I had missed.
“No. It isn’t,” Zane hisses. “You were the only one who kept your head. That’s embarrassing.”
“So it’s a good thing you own me, then. A handy hunk of extra muscle with a couple sweet holes.”
“SHUT UP.” Zane pushes me away. “People are getting desperate, and that’s when they are dangerous. We got lucky this time.”
Zane stares at the ceiling again, and I wait for him to go on.
“I don’t really like people,” he says. “But I like being alone even less.”
“Be with me then.”
“I don’t have a good track record of taking care of things,” he says softly. “Leroy…”
“You had a whole prison to fight off.” I look around the barren house, thinking for the first time what it would be like to live here. “Couldn’t you get a dog? I saw you had the stuff for one, in the dog house. What’s that about? Did you used to have one?”
“Yeah. Named Princess.”
“And?”
“She ate my dad’s cheeseburger. So he shot her in the head.”
“Zane…” I say softly.
His eyes start to water.
I lay my head on his chest, averting my eyes.
His voice gets a bit grainy. “I have to quit wrestling.”
“Why?”
“I need a job. I’m broke. My dad’s in prison. And my uncle stopped coming by to give me cash.”
“I can do it,” I say. “I’ve already quit the team anyway. I have nothing better to do. Like you said about a pride of lions. The lionesses do all the hunting. The alpha rakes in the spoils. All he has to do is flex his muscles.”
Zane smirks, his cock jumping. Then he flexes for me, the spark flashing in his glistening eyes.
I look up at him, licking my chops.
He pulls me in till our lips collide.
The kiss starts slow and wet, his tongue rolling around mine. Then he invades my mouth, jabbing my cheeks with his tongue. He pulls my head back slightly, gripping my jaw to keep my mouth open in a little ‘o’.
He spits inside.
I swallow, keeping my mouth open like I practiced.
He repeats the process to his heart’s content.
When he stops, I bend down and start licking his tattoos.
“You aren’t like a lioness. You’re too domesticated.”
I stop, looking into his eyes and panting, my tongue lolling out.
“Are you serious right now?” Zane asks. “First you play the role of Leroy…and now Princess?”
“Rururur,” I growl.
“You want to be my fucking puppy?”
I grin from ear to ear, jutting my tongue out.
“Don’t wind me up,” Zane says, the light in his eyes slicing.
“Ruhhurr.”
He slaps my face. The he shoves me off him.
I thump to the floor, bruising my rib.
“Faggot pussy position,” Zane says, rising to his feet.
Up goes my ass, down goes my face.
“Stay,” he says, sweeping from the room.
I wait.
Zane returns a minute later with a chain collar in his hand. He bends down, loops it around my neck, and fastens it tight. “The necklace was too good for you…but maybe the collar isn’t.”
I nuzzle between Zane’s legs. Then I tilt my head up, my tongue hanging out, before I swirl it at the airspace between my face and Zane’s cock.
“Rrrg.”
“Fucking bitch,” Zane says, flashing me his twisted smile.
I lick slowly between his balls before making my way up the shaft of his cock. Zane cinches the collar, pulling me back by the neck.
I lick at the air once, then I wait with my mouth open and my tongue half out.
“You were a good girl today, so I’ll let you suck me off,” Zane says. “But from now on—it’ll cost my little puppy faggot…”
“Rrruf. Riiirr.”
“Next time you’d better have 200 bucks for me—got it?”
I nod, whimpering.
“And don’t touch yourself in the meantime.”
He lets go of the collar, and I impale my face on his cock, grunting and slurping my way down, not relenting till it’s buried all the way inside me.
He grips my hair, tilting my head back, making me look into his icy eyes while I suck his cock.
“Oh…before I forget,” he says, petting my head, “there is one more thing.”
---
Feedback keeps me in the mood to write, edit, and brainstorm. Always glad to hear from readers. :)
I've revised the plan for this story and it looks to go on for probably a half-dozen or so more parts.
email: krazytop@gmail.com
tumblr: krazytop@tumblr.com
blogger: krazytop.blogspot.com
---
Part XXV
Einstein said the greatest genius of his era was Jean Piaget.
Jean Piaget studied people over different phases of their life.
Piaget’s found that growing up isn’t a progression; it isn’t like stacking slides on an overhead projector till you see the whole picture.
People, during different phases of their life, look at the world differently. Logic means something different. They have different ideas of what matters, about what is worth focusing on.
In this sense, people are more like different versions of themselves nested inside one another.
Like layers of rock in a mountain.
And when a drop of water hits the peak, it’s the slightest nudge that decides among the web of potential divergent paths. Paths that call on different snapshots of history, and cook up their own realities with them.
People are not built to understand what they used to be. Even if they can regress at a moment’s notice.
People are certainly not built to understand what they will become. Even if the progression is imminent.
As a consequence, open-mindedness isn’t just about accepting different people, but about accepting different versions of yourself.
---
“Did you enjoy your movie?”
Zane asks the question softly, standing in nothing but his jockstrap, his muscles carving out shadows that streak in little canals from the doorway he opened.
I gape at him. Perhaps due to my promise not to warn him, or my shock, or my lack of initiative, I’m unable to get out any words.
“Sure did,” Brett says, turning and springing to his feet. The coffin door starts to tremble and whine in the corner of the room, and then several things happen in a chaotic storm.
Zane retreats back, twisting to flee; Brett slams him into the cabinet before he can escape.
Calvin tries to climb out of the coffin; but I barrel over to it, throwing myself on top of it, jamming it shut.
The snake rake falls to the floor, clinking against the cement. The handcuffs drop moments later, splaying out just to the side of the lock pick.
“What are you doing??” Calvin asks, his voice muffled. “What the HELL?”
Across the room, Zane and Brett’s scuffle has migrated to the floor, with Zane squirming underneath Brett’s mammoth form. A fully-fledged, muscle-bound college student is giving Zane hell. Brett’s a bit bigger and a bit more sophisticated and it’s making for a stacked fight.
I reach down, grappling for the handcuffs, and shackle the coffin door shut. Then I trudge to my feet, stealing a glance back as Calvin pounds vainly against the coffin door. The cuffs strain but hold fast, giving Calvin a tiny window into what’s happening.
“Travis—help!” Zane growls.
“This is your chance,” Brett says, sounding about half as winded. “Use the rope. Let’s tie him up.”
“He’s hurting me,” Zane says.
“Shut the fuck up,” Brett whispers.
I stand over them for a fraction of a second, gathering myself as I sink to my knees.
I feel the draft in my fingertips.
The wind can blow a single drop of rain this way or that.
Deciding the way the stream will rise. Deciding the way the avalanche will fall.
The course of the future in the palm of my hands.
I feel the chill spread through my body.
I push Brett off Zane with all my strength.
He budges slightly, which is all Zane needs to wiggle free.
“What are you doing, Travis?” Brett says, his eyes bulging.
I grab Brett’s arm; Zane grabs the other; we thrust our combined weight on top of him.
“Travis. Think about what you are doing!”
I stare blankly at him.
“No…” he says, his voice fading.
We ram his shoulders to the floor.
“Travis!”
Zane leans forward and gives Brett a soft kiss on the lips, shocking him into silence. Then Zane draws back, leering at him. “Good to see you, Wombat.”
“Can’t say the same.”
“How about I flip you onto your stomach? Then you can avert your eyes.”
Brett isn’t easy to work with, but his advantages over Zane have become immaterial with me in the mix.
We pin him to his stomach.
“Jab your knee into his neck so he can’t move,” Zane says, who presses his legs into Brett’s thighs.
I shove my knee into Brett’s neck, making him sputter, holding onto his wrists.
Zane ties them tight.
“Hold him there.”
I curl up on top of Brett’s back.
Zane scowls down at Brett, letting the silence wash over, before finally letting out a laugh. He prods Brett’s face with his foot. “So was this the plan, Wombat?”
Brett closes his eyes.
Zane pouts and turns his head. “Is that Calvin over there in the corner?”
The coffin is shut now. It sits stationary, silent.
Zane whistles, waltzing over to it and dragging it towards the middle of the garage by the cuffs, his biceps bulging to their limits, with Calvin bouncing around inside.
“Dumbasses. What’ll it take?” Zane turns to me. “Grab Wombat by his legs.”
Tingles course through my body. I’m light on my feet.
I clench Brett’s legs and Zane pulls on his hair as we lift him into the air.
“On top,” Zane says, nodding, and we slam Brett down on the coffin lid containing his little brother.
“Please,” Brett says softly. “Travis… please.”
“It’s me you should be begging,” Zane says, tapping Brett on the cheek.
“What are you going to do?”
Zane smiles, turning away from Brett and focusing his icy eyes on me. “Strip down.”
I peel off my pajamas, tossing them in a heap. The garage air is stale, but still a bit cold. Goosebumps grow along my arms.
“Faggot pussy position,” Zane says.
I sink to the floor, bow my face to the cement, and jut my ass into the air.
“Crawl to me.”
I crawl forward slowly till my face is buried in Zane’s feet.
Zane waits, letting Brett soak in the scene.
My locked lips tremble as I swallow back my own drool.
“Kiss my feet, cundango.”
I open my mouth, planting my wet lips on Zane’s foot, closing softly, sucking and tonguing up the grungy taste. I roll my tongue between his toes, my lips making smacking noises as I root out all the flavor.
Zane pulls me up by the hair, forcing me to look past his bulging black jockstrap, his sweat-stricken, heaving muscles, and into his piercing green eyes.
“You’ve been a good bitch,” Zane says, thumbing my chin.
“Thank you, master,” I say.
“Go ahead and improvise a bit,” Zane says, inflating his chest out and leaning back into Brett’s legs.
There’s no greater reward than this.
I press my face into fabric surrounding Zane’s balls, nuzzling into them. Then I lock my mouth around the imprint of his cock, slowly ratcheting up the intensity of my sucking lips. I savor every second I get to fawn over his cock and balls.
I move to pull down his jockstrap, but Zane bats my hand away.
“Later. I promise,” Zane says. “Right now, I’ve got to plant my flag in some new territory.”
“No,” Brett says weakly.
“Yes,” Zane says.
“You—you wouldn’t. Not without my say-so,” Brett says.
“Don’t be presumptuous. It’s a bad color on a faggot.”
“I’m not a faggot!”
“Neither was your brother. Supposedly. Before I turned him. I bet you’ll be even easier.”
“You want a bet?” Brett asks. “Really?”
“Nah.”
“I--I’d bet you can’t even make me hard,” Brett says softly.
“Well…fuck, Brett. What do you have to offer me?”
“Cooperation.”
Zane taps his fingernails on the coffin. “And if I were to lose?”
“You let me go.”
“I’ll give you seven minutes,” Zane says, rubbing Brett’s shoulders.
Zane flip Brett onto his back.
THUMP.
“No touching my dick, ass, or mouth,” Brett says, his voice wavering. “Nothing gross, nothing that hurts.”
“It strikes me that you are in no position to make rules,” Zane says, pulling off Brett’s shorts and boxers.
A sizeable flaccid dick plops into view, draping over Brett’s balls.
“My rules or no bet,” Brett says.
“Rules won’t save you.” Zane unlocks his phone, handing it to me. “Coin—start the fucking timer.”
My ass clenches around the plug as his fingers graze mine. I gape at my Master, then at the faggot I know he’ll soon break.
I start the timer.
A moment later, Zane straddles Brett’s chest, feeling up his pectorals. “You’ve been working out. Must be frustrating to be in this position. All your hard work…for nothing.”
Brett glares at Zane, sparks darting across his eyes, his lips shut tight.
Zane pinches Brett’s nipples. Brett juts out his chest and grates his teeth.
Mirth dances in Zane’s eyes as he rides his way up Brett’s bulging chest, grinding his jock-clad crotch into Brett’s protruding muscles.
He prods Brett’s chin with his package, cradling Brett’s head in his hands. “So, how big does your dick get, when you are hard?”
“Eight inches.”
“Let’s go with seven again. You seem like the exaggerating type.”
“There’s a ruler in the cabinet,” Brett whispers, scowling.
I go to fetch it, finding it in the second drawer next to the tape.
“Feeling anything yet?” Zane asks.
Plain resolution stares back up.
Zane takes a look at Brett’s dick, and I follow his gaze. It hasn’t moved.
“I really don’t do anything for you?” Zane asks, undulating slowly.
“You’re a filthy, arrogant monster,” Brett says evenly. “Your lot doesn’t last in college. In life.”
Zane laughs. “It must be embarrassing…being a COLLEGE STUD—at the mercy of a bratty, dirty high school boy. What are people going to say when you tell them you spent the weekend getting owned and fucked by a grade-school hooligan? Probably that your slutty bottom-boy ass took advantage of an innocent, doe-eyed minor. I just stumbled into this situation, after all.”
Zane’s eyes grow saccharine and big as he bites his lip, massaging Brett’s thighs.
Brett squirms. “Tickles a bit,” he whispers. But Brett’s dick remains stubbornly soft.
“How much time gone?” Zane asks.
“A couple minutes,” I say.
Brett finally cracks a half-smile.
Considering the circumstances, he seems downright lively. “Not much to show for, Zanebrain. Perhaps it’s time for constructive criticism? Your tattoos are weird, your hair is a disgrace, and you need a shower. Oh, and you are a self-absorbed asshole.”
“I suppose I could switch up my strategy,” Zane says shrugging. “Coin! Get over here.”
I hurry to Zane’s side. He dismounts from Brett’s chest.
“Your turn,” Zane says, taking the phone I was using as a timer.
“What is this?” Brett says, his brow furrowing. “Zane!”
I crawl on top of Brett, balancing on the coffin lid with my knees on either side of him, my head level with his chest, breathing slowly.
“Kiss his nipple,” Zane says. He must notice the plug slipping out of my ass, because he rams it back in.
I lower my face into Brett’s big chest, tonguing his nipple once before closing my lips around it with a smack.
“Shit!” Brett says, bucking.
“Hmm,” Zane says. “Now we are getting somewhere.”
I drag my tongue along his chest, dipping into the valley between his pectorals, finding his other nipple.
“TRAVIS!” Brett breathes. “Travis…please…Think about what you are doing!”
“Go ahead and think about it,” Zane says. “How long have you wanted to do this to him?”
“Since—the day—washing—the Mazda. Four—years.”
“And what happened that day?” Zane asks.
“Wet shorts—wanted inside.”
“But he never had the INITIATIVE. He never took CONTROL. You would’ve been a fag for him in a second. All that potential—just fizzled away.”
“Mmm,” I whisper.
“Six inches and change,” Zane muses. “I do hope you weren’t exaggerating too much.”
“TRAVIS. I’m begging you—help me. Please—help me.”
With Brett’s arms tied behind his back, his bristly, dewy armpit is exposed inches from my face.
Zane grabs my head and pushes it inside.
I lap greedily at the oasis, rooting my head around.
“FUCK!” Brett says, bucking out again. “Travis…no,” he whines. “Oh God, no…”
“Eight inches even,” Zane says. “Guess you were being honest. I’m disappointed. You didn’t even make this EXCITING for me.” Zane sighs. “Alright, go ahead and get down now, coin.”
I slide off of Brett, crouching down to the floor.
“And that means—you have to cooperate with my rules,” Zane says. “Which are a bit different.” He grips Brett by the dick, flipping him over again.
“No—fuck—god no,” Brett says, worming away from Zane.
Zane pushes Brett’s face into the coffin with one hand while massaging his ass with the other. “This is a fantastic ass, by the way. So—voluptuous.”
Brett tries and fails to wiggle out from under him. “GET THE FUCK OFF!”
“But you said I could,” Zane said, moving his other hand down, biting his tongue, and kneading Brett’s ass with both hands. “A bet’s a bet.”
“FUCK THAT!”
“You made a promise Brett. What would your parents say, seeing you break your word?”
“They’d rather see that…than see their son sodomized.”
“What century are you from?” Zane asks. He spreads Brett’s ass, eying his hole. “You promised cooperation. I don’t like people who aren’t good for their word. If you are so religious, where is your sense of honor?”
“Calvin’s the honorable one. Get off. Get off. GET OFF.” His eyes grow wet.
“I will. In a manner of speaking,” Zane says. “You are acting pathetic. It’s not my fault you lost. I mean, kind of. But it’s your fault too. You should feel very stupid right now.”
“Travis,” Brett whispers.
Zane slaps his face. “SHUT UP.”
“Travis,” Brett whines again.
Zane grabs Brett by the neck, who makes a hacking noise.
“Zane—please,” I say. “Please—don’t hurt him.”
“Why the fuck not? What do you think he would have done to me?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
Zane releases his hold on Brett. “What would you have done, Wombat? What was your carefully laid PLAN, the one that took all of ten seconds to turn on its head? What were you going to do to me?”
“We just wanted to scare you—honest,” Brett says, his voice cracking. “We were just going to knock some sense into you. I didn’t want to hurt you. I just wanted to scare you.”
“With a bunch of old Halloween junk?” Zane spits, kicking the coffin. “What, do you still think I’m five years old? I don’t believe that for a SECOND. Travis, he just wants me to take it easy!”
I look from Brett to Zane. I crawl back to Zane and lick his foot, then look into his eyes. “Please, master. Don’t hurt him. Please…”
Zane laughs. “What? You want to take over his punishment?”
“Sure,” I say softly, kissing Zane’s ankles.
Zane turns to Brett. “Aren’t you too NOBLE to let this happen? Your brother would never let this fly.”
“I already told you, Calvin’s the good one, not me. Go ahead and punish Travis, see what I care. He’s not even his own person. He’s more like a fucked up prosthetic that you own. A fabricated pile of flesh and bone and muscle that you move with your mind, that does whatever you want.”
“Is that true, coin?” Zane asks.
“Yes Zane,” I say softly. I take a moment to suck on Zane’s toe, and he raises his foot slightly to egg me along. “Sometimes I think my own thoughts. But I’m trying not to, Master.”
“A fucked-up prosthetic. You make him sound so—redundant,” Zane says. “I’ve always fashioned myself a minimalist.”
“A poor boy,” Brett spits.
Zane smirks. “So—Travis. In terms of punishment. How about I cut off your balls?”
The plug prods my ass.
I look up at Zane and he looks down at me, our eyes boring into one another.
Then I shake my head.
“No?” Zane asks. “Hmm. Probably for the best. You might be less fun without that little hormone factory. How about a toe then?”
A toe. Jesus.
Every rational, impulsive, or self-centered node of my brain screams at me.
But another voice whispers too.
Ten toes…that really is a lot. Do I really need all of them?
Do I really need anything?
I’ll still have plenty.
I find myself nodding.
“What the hell?” Brett gasps.
“You still fine with him taking your beating?” Zane asks.
“You aren’t going to go through with it.”
“Is that a CHALLENGE?” Zane asks, leering. “Are you egging me ON? Travis, go get a butcher’s knife. And duct tape, while you are at it.”
Brett’s eyes flash. “You really think you’ll get away with this? People will know it was you, you’re the only one crazy enough to do something like this.”
“I can make Travis say it was his idea.”
“Then they’ll lock you both away,” Brett says.
“And yet—that won’t make you unsee the things you’ve seen.” Zane leans in to Brett’s ear. “You might get nightmares.”
Brett shakes his head as I leave for the kitchen. I return back to silence, lay the tape and knife down at Zane’s feet, and close my eyes, focusing on my breathing.
Does he plan to tape the wound shut?
Wouldn’t he be better off cauterizing it?
Shivers course through me.
“STOP!” Brett says. “Stop,” he repeats slowly.
I sneak a peek. Zane’s brandishing the knife, inches from my feet, a manic expression flooding his face.
“Now or never,” Zane says.
“F--fuck me,” Brett says.
“What was that?” Zane asks.
Brett glares at him.
“FUCK ME.”
“That’s more like it! Travis, duct-tape his mouth shut.”
I slowly rise, clutching the tape.
It makes a honking noise as I peel it off the roll. I rip a strip free. Then, I press it over Brett’s lips, rubbing it into place.
“Get him ready,” Zane says.
I move cautiously towards Brett, my heartbeat thumping. Zane rolls his eyes, grabbing the back of my head, guiding me roughly into Brett’s voluptuous cleavage.
At first I taste a hint of sweet body wash, but I push through that and into the masculine, salty, swamp of Brett’s ass. He keeps it cleaner than Zane, but there’s no mistaking the traces of the kind of man that works out hard and parties harder.
I lick, slowly and softly at first, then rougher, getting inside the hole. Heaven knows it needs to be stretched.
A high-pitched whimper escapes from Brett’s nose.
Slaves built the greatest legacy
The Oroboros line
You can’t make heads or tails
Of devils you divine
Calvin’s muffled, angry voice clamors from inside the box.
“Shut the fuck up in there!” Zane hisses, kicking the coffin again. “One more word, and I swear, you’ll spend the rest of the day swimming in my piss.”
Calvin falls silent.
I tongue Brett’s hole. His meaty, big-boy ass flexes and hugs my face. This might be the strongest ass I’ve seen on a guy—thick muscle distends the skin in obscene spheres.
I lick and prod and nibble and kiss.
I NEVER thought I’d get the chance to taste Brett.
I feel the grip of Master’s fingers on my hair as he forces me to the surface.
“Enough, faggot.”
My tongue lolls out. Zane heaves me toward the floor, and I swivel, facing them, before sinking back into faggot pussy position, gazing up into Brett’s wide eyes.
Zane pulls down his jockstrap, his cock flipping briefly into view. He slides it along the trench of Brett’s ass.
Brett juts his shoulders back, looking at me with an expression of pity. He squirms a bit, but it’s no use.
Zane’s face works its way into view a moment later, just past Brett’s. He does his best to mimic Brett’s typical facial expression, a dorky, cocky simper with big eyes. There is a bit of a resemblance.
But, a second later, their faces could not be more different.
Zane’s mouth drops open in a sick smile; his eyebrows furrow in concentration; his eyes droop in ecstasy as he licks the corner of his lips.
Brett’s head bounces around, his mouth still taped shut, his eyebrows fleeing toward his hairline, his eyes popping halfway out of his skull.
I hear the clap of Zane’s abs against Brett’s ass.
“You are a faggot,” Zane says, nibbling Brett’s ear and playing with his hair. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
For good while, Zane fucks Brett. All I can hear is the slapping, gasping sounds of Zane working himself short of breathe.
I stare into Brett’s eyes as the spark in them slowly fades.
Brett’s on the path to learn what I’ve learned. And he had to learn the hard way, just like me.
Brett had assumed that at some level, I didn’t like the way Zane treats me. But that’s a bit or a mischaracterization.
Zane LET me be—HELPED me be--MADE me be---the cundango faggot no one else would allow me to be. Idealists like Calvin had assumed that freedom would let people prove how good they are, but the cynics see they can just as easily prove any number of things.
Idealism isn’t some moral shelf in the sky. It’s the shelf ideas sit on before they are tested out. Like a virus culture in a petri dish, growing and growing in its little container, shielded from the real world, ready to be used, manipulated, and, eventually, unleashed.
I look into Zane’s eyes, biting my upper lip.
“You wish it was you, coin? Tied up, taped up, getting your slave pussy pounded?”
I nod.
“Get over here.”
I find my feet, walking over to Zane.
“Eat my ass, faggot.”
I sink to my knees behind Zane, before burrowing my face inside. The sharp musk overwhelms me and I almost black out. He tightens his ass around my face, knotting up my tongue as I try to scoop out his flavor. I wait, breathing in his vapor, as his ass slowly unsticks.
Each time he thrusts inside of Brett, his ass clamps down around my face, and I wait, patiently, to be released.
Zane’s voice carries over.
“To take over a Pride, the first thing a lion does is kill the old alpha males. But do you know the second, Brett?”
Zane lets the question hang, gyrating in and out three more times, giving Brett time to answer, as though he somehow could with his mouth taped shut.
“He attacks the babies,” Zane says. “Each mother defends them viciously. But the lion is stronger, so he gets his way. He severs the old Pride’s bloodline. And do you know what the lionesses do, after they mourn?”
FWAP FWAP FWAP.
“What do you think, Travis?”
I pull my face out of Zane’s ass, lapping at his balls. “I don’t know. What do they do, Zane?” I ask in a whisper.
FWAP FWAP FWAP.
“They ovulate. They lie down and jut their pussies up and let the new alpha fuck them. When a bitch gets defeated badly enough, sometimes getting fucked is all it knows to do. That’s what she yearns for—to consecrate the oblivion so she can start over. To be torn down completely so she can rebuild stronger.”
“Stronger? Why stronger?”
FWAP FWAP FWAP.
“Because, faggot, the Alpha proved his cum is best.”
Zane slaps Brett’s face again, and this time, I don’t have the will to stop him. “You understand what happened, don’t you? In another life, you and Calvin might have grown up to marry women and father children. But how can you now? Every time you see an alpha male, you’ll wonder what he’s packing—what it will take to get him to pack your juicy ass with it. You tried to pretend you had no honor, because it was the last card you had to play. But you do have honor. You can’t lie. You’re a FUCKING FAGGOT, just like your bitch of a younger brother. Did Calvin tell you he’s been stealing my jockstraps? So he can jack off, dreaming of me?”
Zane grips Brett’s hair hard, pulling his face into the air, making Brett arch his back and distend his crowning ass. Then, suddenly, he let’s go of Brett’s head.
“I could do this all day. I can maintain this delicious, deep slowness as long as I want. I’ll tell you what—I’ll let you choose when you’re ready for the climax. All you have to do—is get in the faggot pussy position. You saw Travis do it. Don’t be shy.”
For the next few minutes, Zane maintains his pace, biding his time, savoring every second he gets inside Brett’s tight, wet ass, proving his endless control.
Then, slowly, the lump under Zane begins to move.
Brett presses his face down into the coffin, scrunching his body in, and pushing his muscle-bound ass into the air.
Zane palms Brett’s ass before slapping it with both hands. “YES!” he exults, picking up the pace. “Oh, fuck, what a cunt! YES!!” He whimpers. Then he laughs. “You’re all faggots now, and you’ll honor what you are. How could you marry a woman after this?”
Brett starts to whimper and push his ass up, in rebellion or collusion I cannot know; in any case, the appearance and effect is one of utmost submission.
“You know what that means, Travis?” Zane asks, laughing. “I just severed the Wombach bloodline.”
Zane wraps his arms around Brett, flexing as he claims his newest prize.
With four more vicious, thumping, thrusts, Zane buries his cock balls-deep up Brett’s newly minted cunt.
I circle back around, looking into Brett’s eyes, where the spark has long since died. It seems to have been stolen by Zane, whose green eyes twinkle as he flashes me a crooked smile.
Brett hangs his head.
“You’re a bastard, Zane.”
The muffled voice comes from inside the box that Brett is splayed out on.
Zane pulls out of Brett, who shudders and collapses back on the coffin. Zane lingers beside the coffin, turning his gaze on me.
“Lift the lid,” Zane says.
I push the lid up. Brett slides off, landing on the floor in a heap.
“I’m good for my word,” Zane says, glaring into the gap. “Unlike your bitch of big bro.”
Then he points his cock at the gap, the slit in the head glinting.
A moment later, I see the glittering stream flow forth. I hear it bouncing around the inside of the coffin, trickling and pattering here and there.
He shakes his cock, letting out a few last stray beads, before snapping his jockstrap back into place. I hear him kick the knife over to Brett.
“Go ahead and cut yourself free, fag. I’m sure you’ll want to clean this mess up before your parents get home.” Zane slams the coffin lid shut. “Let’s go, coin. I don’t want to be here anymore.”
I look at my pajamas, unsure if I should even ask.
“Don’t bother,” Zane says. He scoops them up for me. Then we sweep out of the garage and back into the house, the door sticking shut behind us.
Zane gestures for me to follow him out the front door, baring his teeth in an almost smile.
---
I look around as I walk outside, feeling the air prickle my body. Luckily, there’s no one near us.
We hop in on opposite sides of Zane’s truck.
“What if someone sees us?” I ask.
Zane starts the engine, then presses the gas. “They’ll see two shirtless, muscular teens with buzz cuts. They might not catch that you are naked. They’ll probably mistake us for friends. Two badass bros, hanging out.”
I chew on my tongue, saying nothing as the tires skid along the streets.
“I suppose you can hide if you want to,” Zane says.
“Where?”
“Here.” Zane grips the back of my head and forces it into his crotch, his cock and balls imprinting my face through the jockstrap. “Clean my junk.”
I pull his waistband away from his body far enough to free his cock.
Merely holding it in my hands has quite an impact on me.
It’s warm to the touch, and fierce looking. If I pay close attention, I can sense his heartbeat. His cock starts to thicken in my palm, demanding more intense affection.
“Go on,” Zane says, gripping the back of my head and pushing down.
There are some skid marks from Brett’s ass on Zane’s cock, swirled up with a shell of cum.
I close my mouth around Zane’s cockhead, breaking down the dried cum, tasting hints of Brett’s musk mixed in.
Zane puppeteers my head with one hand while he steers the truck with the other.
The noises of slime rolling around my mouth is drowned out by the noise of the engine revving.
This drags on for a few minutes, his cock finally prodding the back of my throat. Suddenly, everything goes dark.
Zane pulls my head up, and through the rear-view mirror, I see the garage door trundling down, boxing us in.
“Home sweet home,” Zane says.
He hops out of the truck and I follow suit.
Zane’s garage is almost empty. No more than three boxes sit on the shelves.
I stop looking around, staring at my feet instead. It is too dark to see much anyway.
I follow Zane into the house. He never bothers to put his cock away, so it bounces around as he walks, in a way I find a bit too precarious for my liking.
He collapses back onto the couch, his cock pointing straight up into the air. He stares blankly at the ceiling.
I crouch down in front of him. “You’re bruised,” I says softly. Little purple marks blemish his skin where Brett had slammed him into wood and concrete. I close my mouth around one of them, then another, peppering them with wet kisses.
“That was close,” Zane says. “If you hadn’t… If you hadn’t been able to help me…”
A bit of my hair is sweaty and stuck to my forehead. Zane pushes it up slowly.
“It’s okay to depend on others sometimes,” I say, before kissing a bruise I had missed.
“No. It isn’t,” Zane hisses. “You were the only one who kept your head. That’s embarrassing.”
“So it’s a good thing you own me, then. A handy hunk of extra muscle with a couple sweet holes.”
“SHUT UP.” Zane pushes me away. “People are getting desperate, and that’s when they are dangerous. We got lucky this time.”
Zane stares at the ceiling again, and I wait for him to go on.
“I don’t really like people,” he says. “But I like being alone even less.”
“Be with me then.”
“I don’t have a good track record of taking care of things,” he says softly. “Leroy…”
“You had a whole prison to fight off.” I look around the barren house, thinking for the first time what it would be like to live here. “Couldn’t you get a dog? I saw you had the stuff for one, in the dog house. What’s that about? Did you used to have one?”
“Yeah. Named Princess.”
“And?”
“She ate my dad’s cheeseburger. So he shot her in the head.”
“Zane…” I say softly.
His eyes start to water.
I lay my head on his chest, averting my eyes.
His voice gets a bit grainy. “I have to quit wrestling.”
“Why?”
“I need a job. I’m broke. My dad’s in prison. And my uncle stopped coming by to give me cash.”
“I can do it,” I say. “I’ve already quit the team anyway. I have nothing better to do. Like you said about a pride of lions. The lionesses do all the hunting. The alpha rakes in the spoils. All he has to do is flex his muscles.”
Zane smirks, his cock jumping. Then he flexes for me, the spark flashing in his glistening eyes.
I look up at him, licking my chops.
He pulls me in till our lips collide.
The kiss starts slow and wet, his tongue rolling around mine. Then he invades my mouth, jabbing my cheeks with his tongue. He pulls my head back slightly, gripping my jaw to keep my mouth open in a little ‘o’.
He spits inside.
I swallow, keeping my mouth open like I practiced.
He repeats the process to his heart’s content.
When he stops, I bend down and start licking his tattoos.
“You aren’t like a lioness. You’re too domesticated.”
I stop, looking into his eyes and panting, my tongue lolling out.
“Are you serious right now?” Zane asks. “First you play the role of Leroy…and now Princess?”
“Rururur,” I growl.
“You want to be my fucking puppy?”
I grin from ear to ear, jutting my tongue out.
“Don’t wind me up,” Zane says, the light in his eyes slicing.
“Ruhhurr.”
He slaps my face. The he shoves me off him.
I thump to the floor, bruising my rib.
“Faggot pussy position,” Zane says, rising to his feet.
Up goes my ass, down goes my face.
“Stay,” he says, sweeping from the room.
I wait.
Zane returns a minute later with a chain collar in his hand. He bends down, loops it around my neck, and fastens it tight. “The necklace was too good for you…but maybe the collar isn’t.”
I nuzzle between Zane’s legs. Then I tilt my head up, my tongue hanging out, before I swirl it at the airspace between my face and Zane’s cock.
“Rrrg.”
“Fucking bitch,” Zane says, flashing me his twisted smile.
I lick slowly between his balls before making my way up the shaft of his cock. Zane cinches the collar, pulling me back by the neck.
I lick at the air once, then I wait with my mouth open and my tongue half out.
“You were a good girl today, so I’ll let you suck me off,” Zane says. “But from now on—it’ll cost my little puppy faggot…”
“Rrruf. Riiirr.”
“Next time you’d better have 200 bucks for me—got it?”
I nod, whimpering.
“And don’t touch yourself in the meantime.”
He lets go of the collar, and I impale my face on his cock, grunting and slurping my way down, not relenting till it’s buried all the way inside me.
He grips my hair, tilting my head back, making me look into his icy eyes while I suck his cock.
“Oh…before I forget,” he says, petting my head, “there is one more thing.”
---
Feedback keeps me in the mood to write, edit, and brainstorm. Always glad to hear from readers. :)
I've revised the plan for this story and it looks to go on for probably a half-dozen or so more parts.
email: krazytop@gmail.com
tumblr: krazytop@tumblr.com
blogger: krazytop.blogspot.com
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
Taste of Power, Part 24
Part XXIV
A flash in the pan.
Zane’s phrase echoes around and around.
A flash in the pancosmos.
That’s probably not a word, but it should be.
The totality of everything. The finality in everything.
The atom was defined to be indivisible, and then people whispered of it breaking.
The universe was defined to be all encompassing, and now people whisper of its kin.
A singularity split into multiplicity.
Every world, its own possibility; every possibility its own world.
The other day, we learned two ways of modelling odds.
Discrete functions come in distinct building blocks. You can only arrange them in so many ways, like sides on a die.
Continuous functions come in fluid masses. You can break them down to your heart’s content, like water in the ocean.
Which one describes the world at its most fundamental level?
Is there something fundamentally unbreakable?
Can everything be broken?
---
“Calvin’s brother Brett is in town for the weekend,” my mom says, pouring me a bowl of cereal.
I grunt.
“They invited you to go to the drive-in. Doesn’t that sound fun?”
“I don’t want to go.”
“Your father and I have been a bit worried about you,” she says, tapping her thumb against the table. “You’re out and about more; sure. But you seem so distant. The hair, the earring, the dirty looks. Calvin seemed worried too. He said--you’ve been spending time with Zane from wrestling.”
I drop my spoon. “Is that what he said?”
“Yes. And I don’t want to be a mother hen, but that boy seems like a bit of a bad egg. Didn’t he go to juvenile hall?”
“Everyone deserves a second chance.”
My mom scowls. “As an adult, even I’m scared of teenagers like him. So when I see that earring, and that haircut—“ My mom stops to try to compose herself. “That’s superficial stuff. I’m just worried you’ll become some kind of gangbanger.”
“You know me.”
“It’s not a joke! What if you get in over your head?”
“I’ll let you know the moment things get too serious.”
“Travis, I don’t want you spending time with Zane.”
I stare silently at the bowl. The cereal bloats in its milk.
“Meet me halfway. Go to the drive-in. And don’t let Zane rope you in with the wrong crowd. Or I swear to God, Travis…”
“Fine,” I say.
“So we’re good?”
“Yeah.”
---
I remember coming over to play mokimon cards one summer—it must have been about four and a half years ago--when Brett was just starting high school. Calvin, my intended opponent, wasn’t there, but Brett was. He asked me to help him wash the family Mazda. In nothing but his P.E. shorts.
I should have been suspicious when he had me stash my new mokimon deck inside.
We spent more time spraying each other with the hose than we did the car. Brett’s always been a bit ahead of his years, in terms of development. The image is still seared into my mind. Soapy water mingling with sweat, running down his thick muscles, glinting with sunlight, cementing his stretchy shorts around his tight ass and thick dick.
I could see it all through the wet fabric.
Not everyone remembers the exact moment they knew they weren’t straight.
But I do.
---
“What’s up, Travioli?” Brett asks.
“Nothing much, Wombat,” I fire back.
Brett and Calvin’s last name—Wombach—had been the source of ridicule in their formative years. But it confused Coach when they were on the team together. Since Coach never addressed us that way, we shied away from last-name formalities.
And any mocking derivatives.
But Coach isn’t around now.
And neither Brett nor I are on the team anymore.
We had last crossed paths at a New Year’s party my parents made me go to, when he was back from college a few months ago. I had been shy with him, afraid that college might have changed his free-wheeling attitude.
A lot had happened since the day washing the Mazda.
Today, I am confident I am the more changed man.
To the point that I’m not really a man at all.
I sit down in the backseat, and Brett twists around to give me a noogie.
My fears were misguided in any case. He hasn’t changed a bit.
I cringe. “Once you start driving, you’ll be vulnerable, you know,” I say, wrinkling my lips and blocking with my forearm.
“Don’t be silly, Travioli. Once I start driving, we’ll ALL be vulnerable.”
Brett snaps back into place and floors it.
The wheels screech and off we go.
The buttplug spears my ass. Zane hadn’t made me wear it, but I wanted the reminder.
Colors whirl around us. I close my eyes, focusing inward, until I’ve slowed my heartbeat. Then I open back up, my expression blank.
A few blurry stoplights later, Brett pulls into the gas station. “I’m gonna wash the windows. Not sure how Calvin sees out of this thing.”
“By driving at a reasonable speed?” Calvin says. “Aren’t older siblings supposed to be the good ones?”
Brett shrugs. “Wanna buy some peanut M & Ms?” He says, tossing me a five dollar bill. “And get a drink from Smoothie Shack across the street?”
Needles seem to migrate up inside me, prickling my spine. Chris gave me money to buy smoothies sometimes, on the way home from school, when he filled up the tank. I can’t help but shiver. “It’s…still wrestling season, though.”
“But you aren’t on the team anymore.”
“I suppose not,” I say.
I guess a smoothie and some peanut M&Ms won’t kill me.
Brett hurries us along, and before long we are zooming to the theater.
The tellers give us the radio station, and we pull into the lot, parking at a bit of a slope so we can see the screen.
Tonight’s entertainment is “Big Bang Brothers: The Movie,” and it has no shortage of flashy explosions right from the get-go. Brett doesn’t give me much of a chance to soak in the plot, assuming there is one.
Instead he and Calvin join me in the backseat.
Brett whips off his shirt, flexing, draping an arm around me.
I give him a searching look.
“Like what you see?” Brett asks.
“Shut up.”
Brett rubs my hair again. “You were always a bit confusing.”
“You can’t just swing in here after months away and jockey into my inner circle. My mind’s been all rearranged. It’s been a long time since I’ve really thought of you.”
“So you have really thought of me? I had a feeling…but I chickened out. You gotta understand, it would have looked like I was taking advantage of you. What would my parents think?”
I shift in my seat. “You didn’t come all the way back from college for the weekend to show me your pecs.”
“Maybe I did.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Fine. Calvin says you use movies as an excuse to cuddle. And I use anything as an excuse to show off. But that’s not important. What’s important is that I’m really here about Zane.”
I lean over onto Calvin’s shoulder, and Brett drapes his bare arm around me from the other side.
“What about Zane?” I ask, arching my back a bit.
“Do you think it is okay?” Brett asks. “The way he’s been acting?”
I close my eyes. “My definition of okay has evolved. Zane does what everyone does. He uses tools to accumulate power. It’s okay because that’s life. He’s just better at life than me.”
“Well, then let me be your tool then. I can flip the script. You’ll be great at life in no time.”
Calvin sighs, finally chiming in. “What Brett is saying is that Zane is morally bankrupt.”
Brett makes a pouty motor-boat noise. “What I’m saying is that you can’t let yourself get treated that way.”
I shrug. “I like how he treats me.”
“Did you always?”
“It’s an acquired taste.”
“So acquire a new taste, because this one is pathetic as hell.”
“I don’t mind being pathetic as hell.”
“Fine, okay,” Brett says. “Maybe another angle. What is attractive about Zane?”
I pause, staring at the explosion on screen. The colors billow out in waves to the edges, fracturing in a sea of glass and smoke and fire.
His words play back in my mind.
Revulsion. It’s is a defense mechanism, shielding a culture from complications deemed too taxing. Fabricating exploitable social strata. The hatred protects people from looking into the painful, shadowy mirror of their desires that outsiders reflect.
“You remember Hiro?” I ask, still peering at the screen.
Brett nods.
I exhale. “I met Hiro late on in middle school, when my friendship with Calvin was disintegrating, and he kept me from hating Calvin. He said my feeling of hatred for Calvin were filling a void. I cared about Calvin, but since I wasn’t supposed to care about someone who had abandoned me, I built around my feelings a surface emotion that seemed to fit.”
“And Zane?"
I turn to Brett. “He’s forbidden. He’s disgusting. He’s bad. He’s everything I’m supposed to hate. But I can’t help but wonder if that hatred was constructed around a kind of taboo admiration. Zane isn’t afraid to do whatever the fuck he wants in a world obsessed with approval. People can’t decide whether to revere or scorn that; they reek of jealousy. But there’s no denying it turns me on.”
“But if you are a slave…doesn’t that mean you need his approval?”
“Yes.”
Calvin pushes me off his shoulder.
Brett laughs. “I think you have it backwards. Zane is gross to the core, and you’re the one giving him the veneer of credibility.”
“To each his own.”
“And what happens when Zane gets fat and senile and powerless, and falls on the sword of his own heartless philosophy? What will you say then?”
“What will you say if you die and you realize you chose the wrong religion?”
“Damn.”
We watch the movie in relative silence for a while, as the rag-tag cartoon puffballs, wizards, elves, and a kid with a yo-yo form a team to fight the evil Mr. Fist.
“I don’t expect you to really help us,” Brett says abruptly. “But if you are reduced to the role of a spectator, then you can watch me bring about Zane’s downfall.”
I grunt.
“So can I get your word that you won’t warn Zane in any way?”
“Fine,” I say softly. “I won’t warn him.”
“Good,” Brett says, rubbing my hair again. “Because you kind of have to be part of the plan.”
---
I spend the night at Calvin’s.
Brett confiscates my phone, messaging Zane that I was forced by our parents to spend the night with Calvin, and that they will be gone tomorrow afternoon on some kind of wine-train for a few hours. All of which is accurate, but leaves out the presence of Brett.
Brett and I are given separate sleeping bags, but he makes us use them as blankets (one below like a bed and one above like a sheet) so that he can hold me all night, again finding an excuse to go shirtless.
Zane must suspect that something is going on, right?
I doze intermittently.
Images of the physics lab float across my eyes.
The marble rolling down the track.
Gravity. Forces of nature.
Einstein, the smartest man alive, wrapped up in his time just like everyone else.
What happened?
---
Einstein fled the Nazis, but they weren’t the ones who started it.
The strong survive, the weak snuffed out. Facilitate it; accelerate it; wrap your values around your strengths; belittle your shortcomings.
U.S. court cases in the early 1900s decreed people too stupid to procreate. Castrated them. Chemically.
The United States didn’t lead the charge against it; we epitomized the craze.
It wasn’t till World War II that the moral outrage begun—when eugenics started being seen as the weapon of the enemy.
Nazis killed Jews, cripples, blacks, gays—anyone they didn’t see as the cream of the crop.
The U.S. retaliated by severing their line of thought.
Martin Luther King Jr. says the arc of history bends toward justice.
If Hitler is a social Darwinist, then perhaps Reverend King is a moral Darwinist.
And I’m not a Darwinist at all. At least, not outside the context of survival. Sure, people have evolved. Cultures have evolved. Morals have evolved.
But people haven’t gotten—better.
In some ways, they haven’t even changed.
---
What they’ve done is rearrange where their social circles are drawn.
---
“You’re gonna eat brunch with us before we lock you up,” Brett says.
I give Brett a sideways look. “If you say so.”
It strikes me that it’s a bit rude for Calvin’s parents to disappear for a chunk of Brett’s trip home. Although—Brett may have timed his trip that way. Or orchestrated his parents’ getaway.
About twenty minutes after Calvin’s parents leave, the smell wafts through the house.
Crispy hashbrowns, egg-battered French toast, sausage patties, Mimosas.
“What is this—my last meal?”
“You can think of it that way, sure.”
He ushers me toward the dining room, not even giving me a chance to change out of my pajamas.
There isn’t much talking as we eat. Just the clinking of silver.
I do get some idea of the plan though. I’ll be cuffed on my knees in the garage, with Brett sitting nearby, hoping to pass as Calvin from the back. The real Calvin will be hiding among some of the old Halloween decorations.
By the time Zane realizes he is dealing with Brett…
It makes me squirm just thinking about it.
I promised I wouldn’t warn Zane…and Brett took my phone anyway.
Right after brunch, they herd me back into Calvin’s room, and Brett dumps out the box of things, looking for handcuffs.
Calvin’s toys litter the floor; plastic, leather, and a glass dildo glint up at me.
Among them, a thin metal rod catches my eye.
A snake rake. I recognize the little tool—as Zane’s. He must have left it here.
I step into the toy pile, gazing at the Jackie Chan Adventures poster on Calvin’s wall. Then, I clench my toes around the snake rake.
The lights in the room sting my eyes; a film of sweat tickles my skin.
“What are you doing?” Brett asks, a little laughter in his voice.
I feel the cuffs clink, confining my arms behind my back.
I struggle against them, making a show for Brett.
My heart starts thumping in my chest. Any second, Brett’s going to break into hysterical laughter. He’s going to give me shit for trying something so obvious. Thump me on the back for being such an idiot.
Then—remarkably—the moment seems to pass.
“Zane texted that he’s on his way,” Calvin says. “Says he had to stop by Chris’s house first, to give him something.”
My heartbeat plods along. It’s difficult to walk with my toe clenched shut around the snake rake.
Brett wrenches the handle of the airtight door, the seal making a sticky noise as it opens and closes.
We make our way into the musty garage.
Calvin hides in the Halloween coffin in the corner, and Brett pushes me down to my knees, taking a moment to look down at me.
“Zane had a good run. But I think it’s time for your conversion.”
I look into his eyes, saying nothing.
Brett looms over me, his tight shorts and confined dick inches from my face.
He reaches forward, cradling my head.
“Like what you see?”
A few years ago, I’d be electrified at the suggestion.
But now—I think I might be sick.
I feel myself convulsing.
They want to hurt Zane. I can’t stomach the thought of it.
My eyes mist over, but I fight the tears away. I glare up at Brett.
“I—I can’t, Brett.”
Brett smirks, rubbing my hair, before sinking to his knees across from me, facing away from the door.
“Sure you can.”
My mouth hangs slightly open as I lean back, swallowing the lump in my throat and gritting myself. I finally unclench the toe, feeling around for the snake rake. It’s warm and wet around it—I’ve cut my foot.
I fumble for the keyhole, but it’s no use.
I don’t know the first thing about picking locks.
I’d watched Zane do it so many times. Why didn’t I pay more attention?
“Your life’s about to change,” Brett says, reading the consternation on my face.
I close my eyes, replaying Zane’s method in my mind. He didn’t just jam it in there. It was like he was looking for something—something inside the locking mechanism. Pins. I think that is the word.
Without opening my eyes, I talk back to Brett. “As people change, the way that they change stays largely the same.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
“People don’t so much improve, as they do adjust. The conditions differ, and they respond.”
“You don’t think people build on the past?”
“They do. Just not as people think they do.”
I try the lock again, ransacking my mind to see if there is some memory that I missed.
In frustration, the snake-rake slips from my fingers. I grope behind me, trying to find it. I pray that Brett didn’t hear the sound.
“It’s no use trying to fight it,” Brett says. “You have to let him go.”
“I can’t! I CAN’T!”
Brett shakes his head. “Sure you can.”
I clamp my lips shut.
Brett tilts his head, smiling, before leaning toward me with his eyebrows raised. “Bet on it.”
---
Feedback always appreciated.
Email: krazytop@gmail.com
Tumblr: krazytop.tumblr.com
A flash in the pan.
Zane’s phrase echoes around and around.
A flash in the pancosmos.
That’s probably not a word, but it should be.
The totality of everything. The finality in everything.
The atom was defined to be indivisible, and then people whispered of it breaking.
The universe was defined to be all encompassing, and now people whisper of its kin.
A singularity split into multiplicity.
Every world, its own possibility; every possibility its own world.
The other day, we learned two ways of modelling odds.
Discrete functions come in distinct building blocks. You can only arrange them in so many ways, like sides on a die.
Continuous functions come in fluid masses. You can break them down to your heart’s content, like water in the ocean.
Which one describes the world at its most fundamental level?
Is there something fundamentally unbreakable?
Can everything be broken?
---
“Calvin’s brother Brett is in town for the weekend,” my mom says, pouring me a bowl of cereal.
I grunt.
“They invited you to go to the drive-in. Doesn’t that sound fun?”
“I don’t want to go.”
“Your father and I have been a bit worried about you,” she says, tapping her thumb against the table. “You’re out and about more; sure. But you seem so distant. The hair, the earring, the dirty looks. Calvin seemed worried too. He said--you’ve been spending time with Zane from wrestling.”
I drop my spoon. “Is that what he said?”
“Yes. And I don’t want to be a mother hen, but that boy seems like a bit of a bad egg. Didn’t he go to juvenile hall?”
“Everyone deserves a second chance.”
My mom scowls. “As an adult, even I’m scared of teenagers like him. So when I see that earring, and that haircut—“ My mom stops to try to compose herself. “That’s superficial stuff. I’m just worried you’ll become some kind of gangbanger.”
“You know me.”
“It’s not a joke! What if you get in over your head?”
“I’ll let you know the moment things get too serious.”
“Travis, I don’t want you spending time with Zane.”
I stare silently at the bowl. The cereal bloats in its milk.
“Meet me halfway. Go to the drive-in. And don’t let Zane rope you in with the wrong crowd. Or I swear to God, Travis…”
“Fine,” I say.
“So we’re good?”
“Yeah.”
---
I remember coming over to play mokimon cards one summer—it must have been about four and a half years ago--when Brett was just starting high school. Calvin, my intended opponent, wasn’t there, but Brett was. He asked me to help him wash the family Mazda. In nothing but his P.E. shorts.
I should have been suspicious when he had me stash my new mokimon deck inside.
We spent more time spraying each other with the hose than we did the car. Brett’s always been a bit ahead of his years, in terms of development. The image is still seared into my mind. Soapy water mingling with sweat, running down his thick muscles, glinting with sunlight, cementing his stretchy shorts around his tight ass and thick dick.
I could see it all through the wet fabric.
Not everyone remembers the exact moment they knew they weren’t straight.
But I do.
---
“What’s up, Travioli?” Brett asks.
“Nothing much, Wombat,” I fire back.
Brett and Calvin’s last name—Wombach—had been the source of ridicule in their formative years. But it confused Coach when they were on the team together. Since Coach never addressed us that way, we shied away from last-name formalities.
And any mocking derivatives.
But Coach isn’t around now.
And neither Brett nor I are on the team anymore.
We had last crossed paths at a New Year’s party my parents made me go to, when he was back from college a few months ago. I had been shy with him, afraid that college might have changed his free-wheeling attitude.
A lot had happened since the day washing the Mazda.
Today, I am confident I am the more changed man.
To the point that I’m not really a man at all.
I sit down in the backseat, and Brett twists around to give me a noogie.
My fears were misguided in any case. He hasn’t changed a bit.
I cringe. “Once you start driving, you’ll be vulnerable, you know,” I say, wrinkling my lips and blocking with my forearm.
“Don’t be silly, Travioli. Once I start driving, we’ll ALL be vulnerable.”
Brett snaps back into place and floors it.
The wheels screech and off we go.
The buttplug spears my ass. Zane hadn’t made me wear it, but I wanted the reminder.
Colors whirl around us. I close my eyes, focusing inward, until I’ve slowed my heartbeat. Then I open back up, my expression blank.
A few blurry stoplights later, Brett pulls into the gas station. “I’m gonna wash the windows. Not sure how Calvin sees out of this thing.”
“By driving at a reasonable speed?” Calvin says. “Aren’t older siblings supposed to be the good ones?”
Brett shrugs. “Wanna buy some peanut M & Ms?” He says, tossing me a five dollar bill. “And get a drink from Smoothie Shack across the street?”
Needles seem to migrate up inside me, prickling my spine. Chris gave me money to buy smoothies sometimes, on the way home from school, when he filled up the tank. I can’t help but shiver. “It’s…still wrestling season, though.”
“But you aren’t on the team anymore.”
“I suppose not,” I say.
I guess a smoothie and some peanut M&Ms won’t kill me.
Brett hurries us along, and before long we are zooming to the theater.
The tellers give us the radio station, and we pull into the lot, parking at a bit of a slope so we can see the screen.
Tonight’s entertainment is “Big Bang Brothers: The Movie,” and it has no shortage of flashy explosions right from the get-go. Brett doesn’t give me much of a chance to soak in the plot, assuming there is one.
Instead he and Calvin join me in the backseat.
Brett whips off his shirt, flexing, draping an arm around me.
I give him a searching look.
“Like what you see?” Brett asks.
“Shut up.”
Brett rubs my hair again. “You were always a bit confusing.”
“You can’t just swing in here after months away and jockey into my inner circle. My mind’s been all rearranged. It’s been a long time since I’ve really thought of you.”
“So you have really thought of me? I had a feeling…but I chickened out. You gotta understand, it would have looked like I was taking advantage of you. What would my parents think?”
I shift in my seat. “You didn’t come all the way back from college for the weekend to show me your pecs.”
“Maybe I did.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Fine. Calvin says you use movies as an excuse to cuddle. And I use anything as an excuse to show off. But that’s not important. What’s important is that I’m really here about Zane.”
I lean over onto Calvin’s shoulder, and Brett drapes his bare arm around me from the other side.
“What about Zane?” I ask, arching my back a bit.
“Do you think it is okay?” Brett asks. “The way he’s been acting?”
I close my eyes. “My definition of okay has evolved. Zane does what everyone does. He uses tools to accumulate power. It’s okay because that’s life. He’s just better at life than me.”
“Well, then let me be your tool then. I can flip the script. You’ll be great at life in no time.”
Calvin sighs, finally chiming in. “What Brett is saying is that Zane is morally bankrupt.”
Brett makes a pouty motor-boat noise. “What I’m saying is that you can’t let yourself get treated that way.”
I shrug. “I like how he treats me.”
“Did you always?”
“It’s an acquired taste.”
“So acquire a new taste, because this one is pathetic as hell.”
“I don’t mind being pathetic as hell.”
“Fine, okay,” Brett says. “Maybe another angle. What is attractive about Zane?”
I pause, staring at the explosion on screen. The colors billow out in waves to the edges, fracturing in a sea of glass and smoke and fire.
His words play back in my mind.
Revulsion. It’s is a defense mechanism, shielding a culture from complications deemed too taxing. Fabricating exploitable social strata. The hatred protects people from looking into the painful, shadowy mirror of their desires that outsiders reflect.
“You remember Hiro?” I ask, still peering at the screen.
Brett nods.
I exhale. “I met Hiro late on in middle school, when my friendship with Calvin was disintegrating, and he kept me from hating Calvin. He said my feeling of hatred for Calvin were filling a void. I cared about Calvin, but since I wasn’t supposed to care about someone who had abandoned me, I built around my feelings a surface emotion that seemed to fit.”
“And Zane?"
I turn to Brett. “He’s forbidden. He’s disgusting. He’s bad. He’s everything I’m supposed to hate. But I can’t help but wonder if that hatred was constructed around a kind of taboo admiration. Zane isn’t afraid to do whatever the fuck he wants in a world obsessed with approval. People can’t decide whether to revere or scorn that; they reek of jealousy. But there’s no denying it turns me on.”
“But if you are a slave…doesn’t that mean you need his approval?”
“Yes.”
Calvin pushes me off his shoulder.
Brett laughs. “I think you have it backwards. Zane is gross to the core, and you’re the one giving him the veneer of credibility.”
“To each his own.”
“And what happens when Zane gets fat and senile and powerless, and falls on the sword of his own heartless philosophy? What will you say then?”
“What will you say if you die and you realize you chose the wrong religion?”
“Damn.”
We watch the movie in relative silence for a while, as the rag-tag cartoon puffballs, wizards, elves, and a kid with a yo-yo form a team to fight the evil Mr. Fist.
“I don’t expect you to really help us,” Brett says abruptly. “But if you are reduced to the role of a spectator, then you can watch me bring about Zane’s downfall.”
I grunt.
“So can I get your word that you won’t warn Zane in any way?”
“Fine,” I say softly. “I won’t warn him.”
“Good,” Brett says, rubbing my hair again. “Because you kind of have to be part of the plan.”
---
I spend the night at Calvin’s.
Brett confiscates my phone, messaging Zane that I was forced by our parents to spend the night with Calvin, and that they will be gone tomorrow afternoon on some kind of wine-train for a few hours. All of which is accurate, but leaves out the presence of Brett.
Brett and I are given separate sleeping bags, but he makes us use them as blankets (one below like a bed and one above like a sheet) so that he can hold me all night, again finding an excuse to go shirtless.
Zane must suspect that something is going on, right?
I doze intermittently.
Images of the physics lab float across my eyes.
The marble rolling down the track.
Gravity. Forces of nature.
Einstein, the smartest man alive, wrapped up in his time just like everyone else.
What happened?
---
Einstein fled the Nazis, but they weren’t the ones who started it.
The strong survive, the weak snuffed out. Facilitate it; accelerate it; wrap your values around your strengths; belittle your shortcomings.
U.S. court cases in the early 1900s decreed people too stupid to procreate. Castrated them. Chemically.
The United States didn’t lead the charge against it; we epitomized the craze.
It wasn’t till World War II that the moral outrage begun—when eugenics started being seen as the weapon of the enemy.
Nazis killed Jews, cripples, blacks, gays—anyone they didn’t see as the cream of the crop.
The U.S. retaliated by severing their line of thought.
Martin Luther King Jr. says the arc of history bends toward justice.
If Hitler is a social Darwinist, then perhaps Reverend King is a moral Darwinist.
And I’m not a Darwinist at all. At least, not outside the context of survival. Sure, people have evolved. Cultures have evolved. Morals have evolved.
But people haven’t gotten—better.
In some ways, they haven’t even changed.
---
What they’ve done is rearrange where their social circles are drawn.
---
“You’re gonna eat brunch with us before we lock you up,” Brett says.
I give Brett a sideways look. “If you say so.”
It strikes me that it’s a bit rude for Calvin’s parents to disappear for a chunk of Brett’s trip home. Although—Brett may have timed his trip that way. Or orchestrated his parents’ getaway.
About twenty minutes after Calvin’s parents leave, the smell wafts through the house.
Crispy hashbrowns, egg-battered French toast, sausage patties, Mimosas.
“What is this—my last meal?”
“You can think of it that way, sure.”
He ushers me toward the dining room, not even giving me a chance to change out of my pajamas.
There isn’t much talking as we eat. Just the clinking of silver.
I do get some idea of the plan though. I’ll be cuffed on my knees in the garage, with Brett sitting nearby, hoping to pass as Calvin from the back. The real Calvin will be hiding among some of the old Halloween decorations.
By the time Zane realizes he is dealing with Brett…
It makes me squirm just thinking about it.
I promised I wouldn’t warn Zane…and Brett took my phone anyway.
Right after brunch, they herd me back into Calvin’s room, and Brett dumps out the box of things, looking for handcuffs.
Calvin’s toys litter the floor; plastic, leather, and a glass dildo glint up at me.
Among them, a thin metal rod catches my eye.
A snake rake. I recognize the little tool—as Zane’s. He must have left it here.
I step into the toy pile, gazing at the Jackie Chan Adventures poster on Calvin’s wall. Then, I clench my toes around the snake rake.
The lights in the room sting my eyes; a film of sweat tickles my skin.
“What are you doing?” Brett asks, a little laughter in his voice.
I feel the cuffs clink, confining my arms behind my back.
I struggle against them, making a show for Brett.
My heart starts thumping in my chest. Any second, Brett’s going to break into hysterical laughter. He’s going to give me shit for trying something so obvious. Thump me on the back for being such an idiot.
Then—remarkably—the moment seems to pass.
“Zane texted that he’s on his way,” Calvin says. “Says he had to stop by Chris’s house first, to give him something.”
My heartbeat plods along. It’s difficult to walk with my toe clenched shut around the snake rake.
Brett wrenches the handle of the airtight door, the seal making a sticky noise as it opens and closes.
We make our way into the musty garage.
Calvin hides in the Halloween coffin in the corner, and Brett pushes me down to my knees, taking a moment to look down at me.
“Zane had a good run. But I think it’s time for your conversion.”
I look into his eyes, saying nothing.
Brett looms over me, his tight shorts and confined dick inches from my face.
He reaches forward, cradling my head.
“Like what you see?”
A few years ago, I’d be electrified at the suggestion.
But now—I think I might be sick.
I feel myself convulsing.
They want to hurt Zane. I can’t stomach the thought of it.
My eyes mist over, but I fight the tears away. I glare up at Brett.
“I—I can’t, Brett.”
Brett smirks, rubbing my hair, before sinking to his knees across from me, facing away from the door.
“Sure you can.”
My mouth hangs slightly open as I lean back, swallowing the lump in my throat and gritting myself. I finally unclench the toe, feeling around for the snake rake. It’s warm and wet around it—I’ve cut my foot.
I fumble for the keyhole, but it’s no use.
I don’t know the first thing about picking locks.
I’d watched Zane do it so many times. Why didn’t I pay more attention?
“Your life’s about to change,” Brett says, reading the consternation on my face.
I close my eyes, replaying Zane’s method in my mind. He didn’t just jam it in there. It was like he was looking for something—something inside the locking mechanism. Pins. I think that is the word.
Without opening my eyes, I talk back to Brett. “As people change, the way that they change stays largely the same.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
“People don’t so much improve, as they do adjust. The conditions differ, and they respond.”
“You don’t think people build on the past?”
“They do. Just not as people think they do.”
I try the lock again, ransacking my mind to see if there is some memory that I missed.
In frustration, the snake-rake slips from my fingers. I grope behind me, trying to find it. I pray that Brett didn’t hear the sound.
“It’s no use trying to fight it,” Brett says. “You have to let him go.”
“I can’t! I CAN’T!”
Brett shakes his head. “Sure you can.”
I clamp my lips shut.
Brett tilts his head, smiling, before leaning toward me with his eyebrows raised. “Bet on it.”
---
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Tuesday, July 12, 2016
Taste of Power, Part 23
Disclaimer: This is a mindless piece of fiction; don't do anything stupid, etc.
Part XXIII
I see now with the sterility of an anthropologist.
The push and pull is more than the game of courtship; it’s the game of life.
Every conversation, every action, every movement stinks of them now. I can almost see, almost feel the aura around people, like the blurry, smoky pins Zane put in me.
They interact; they bark at one another; they babble. They settle in on egalitarianism, or dominance, or submission. Cooperation, parasitism, hosting. They decide if each social contract is tabled or sealed or shattered.
The ideals people preach are not soulful promises of how people carry themselves: there exist shy racists and bossy civil rights advocates. Ideals are self-serving, dynamic, unflinching things. Each, arguably, is a life of its own, though not a lonely one. As pioneering DNA, they are viral. They infect people and organizations, glorifying the inversion of purpose and identity. Ideals become good at spreading or they are swamped and felled by competitors.
Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.
Am I standing up for myself? Is that ostentatious power?
Am I generous? Is that ostentatious weakness?
And tomorrow, when culture’s ideals evolve still, will the answers to those questions be the same?
I’m generous with Zane.
Today, maybe you think he’s taking advantage of me.
Tomorrow, maybe you’ll think I’m a saint.
---
I slam my singlet down on the desk.
“I’m quitting the team.”
“Travis—“
“Don’t try to talk me out of it, Uncle.”
“It’s Coach.”
“Whatever.”
“We need you. You are the soul of the team. People see your improvement, and they get pumped up. They want to compete.”
“Well I don’t. Thanks for what you’ve done for me, Uncle. I’m just not a wrestler. Not anymore.”
“Then what are you, son?”
A faggot. A barking animal. A sliver of nothing.
My ass clenches around my plug.
“A cundango.”
“What is that? Is that some of Eduardo’s slang? Hey? Get back here!”
But I don’t. I don’t care about authority figures anymore.
Except one.
---
There are just shadows and me in the hallways.
I drift past the bio lab I like to haunt, but it stings too much of the past today.
I wander into the physics lab, the class I’m signed up for next year.
There are little ramps stacked. Used to measure velocity. I heard that’s the first lab. I roll the marble down the ramp, watching as it clinks along the countertop.
I catch it.
Newton and Einstein were mentioned in my history books.
I smirk.
The past whispers to me no matter what I do.
Last year, in World History, I remember getting lost in the photo of Newton holding up a triangle to the light.
That was before Isaac Newton ruined Leibniz’s life.
Leibniz had simultaneously invented Calculus and wanted some share of Newton’s credit. Newton had the Royal Society in his back pocket, and they made Leibniz a laughingstock. The man became a reclusive drunkard soon after.
This morning, Mr. Andrews mentioned Einstein when we studied World War II.
He wrote a letter to Roosevelt. Urging him to create the nuclear bomb. For the second consecutive war claiming to end all wars.
Those two scientists really had a way with forces.
Newton saw gravity one way, and Einstein saw it another.
I speculated once that people aren’t good for more than half an idea. But maybe it’s just a fraction of that. Or a fraction of a fraction. Our conception of the truth doesn’t settle; it bounces; it inverts.
The times have a core spirit, a zeitgeist, that feels incontrovertible to the people trapped inside. Questioning the fundamentals is a special kind of heresy--the height of bad ethos—for it undermines the magnum opus of an entire culture.
In search of truth, people question anyway.
Newton and Einstein may have believed they couldn’t determine everything, and in particular, that some people just weren’t worth the risk. But they believed that with the right tools, someone could figure it all out.
No one agrees on even that anymore.
---
I slip back into the hallway and wander till my ears prickle at the harmony of laughter.
I had made my way past the kiln, past the school’s hearth.
Roosevelt bounces around in my mind. I do fancy a fireside chat.
I make my way inside.
“Hey Travis! You here for Art Club?”
It’s Cynthia. Chris’s girlfriend. She strikes me as so fake, I kind of want to punch her, just to see what happens. Where’s Zane when you need him for a good bet? My guess is that a bunch of plastic and rubber and cockroaches will pop out of her. She’s like the boogeyman in Nightmare Before Christmas.
“Last time we talked, you told me my pottery looked like a dick,” I say.
One of her friends got to her, didn’t they? She won’t act cruel around them.
I wish I knew those friends better.
Cynthia even has to keep her paranoia in check.
I’ve wondered—is paranoid the right word to describe someone who is unhealthily obsessed with a partner who is really cheating?
Maybe I should tell Cynthia just how far Chris has shoved his cock up my ass.
“I was just trying to break the ice,” Cynthia says. “You know you are one of the best sculptors. You’ll probably win a prize at the art show.”
I’d gotten second place in the ceramics portion last year, for a vase I’d done. Calvin’s older brother Brett had gotten first. But now that he graduated, I guess that made me a frontrunner. I’d always revered him. Copied him really. No one ever gave him hell for pursuing both art and sports. Not like they’d given me.
But I wasn’t maligned for what I’d done. It was for how I was perceived.
As a freak. And everything else just morphed into further evidence of that.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at wrestling practice?” Cynthia asked meekly.
“I quit.”
“Why?”
I might as well be a zoo animal, for all the stares I get.
“Because I suck.”
There is a bit of a pause.
“No one is using the pottery wheel,” Cynthia says.
I wrinkle my lips and make my way over, trying to find peace in the clay spinning through my palms.
But there’s no creative will in me today.
Everything I start collapses.
A small part of me hopes they aren’t still watching, but mostly, I don’t care.
---
I cut away from Art Club after not too long.
I am to get there before Zane finishes wrestling practice—those were the instructions he gave me, when he granted permission to quit the team.
428 Cuyahoga Dr.
Not the main house—not that concrete slab monstrosity that seems to vaguely concede that people need to live in something.
But in the back, in the “dog house” as he called it. Zane didn’t want me in his home without him. Waiting in the old tool shed built by his father makes for a fine compromise.
I don’t hear the frogs or cicadas now, as I creep through the forest.
I only hear my feet chomping away at the leaves. They slip beneath me, rimmed with a bit of ghost-grey frost.
I see the shed before I see the house, framed by trees and leaves. I brush a branch to the side and look on, my heart slowing.
I could just go home, right?
I could walk away from all this?
Inside my mind, there is laughter. Walk away from Zane? Walk away from everything?
That would be like the moon walking away from the earth. My life revolves around him.
I’d rather live a real life as a faggot than a fake life as a man.
But even that’s obscuring the details.
There is no ‘rather’. Not really.
I will do what Zane says. I will.
I circle round the shed, pushing the old door open. The musty hinges groan at me; the door swings at a bit of an angle.
Zane helps me understand.
The light switch is one of those archaic pull-down cords made of little brass beads. I find it easily, but not before a few sticky, clingy cobwebs find me.
Wooden shelves have been nailed right into the walls. Every inch is cluttered with rusty tools and jars. A little hole in the bottom corner of the room prickles my senses, and I half-expect little whiskers to nudge through at any moment.
A chill runs down my spine.
Am I walking into Zane’s torture chamber?
Run. The little voice in my head. Run.
I quell it, streaking my hand along the work table. A plush, purple pillow sits on it, holding down a note.
Cunt-face,
Glad you made it to the dog house. You’ll notice under your pillow (you’re welcome!) is a new pair of underwear.
Now that you are no longer a wrestler, you are forbidden from wearing jockstraps. Those you will return to me.
Put on your new underwear, but only part way, so some of your ass is exposed. That’s how prison bitches do it, to be accessible, and I miss it. :(
Wait in the faggot pussy position on the worktable. Brainstorm what I want to see when I get home from a tough workout with the guys. Soon I’ll take care of my little faggot princess.
Kisses,
Zane
The underwear is pink.
I disrobe and put it on part-way, leaving the cleavage of my ass exposed.
Then I lie down on the worktable, jut my ass up, and nuzzle into the pillow.
Slowly, I drift away.
---
Soothing, wet warmth blankets my hole.
“Mmf!” I groan, biting down on the musky jockstrap. How did that get in my mouth? Master must have manipulated me in my daze.
What a way to get awoken.
I swivel my head back, my view obscured by the hills of my own ass. In the vale between, I see Zane’s piercing eyes and the smoky fringe of Mohawk hair.
His eyes flash as he licks my hole, prodding the star.
My hole clenches, hugging his tongue as it digs inside. I buck, flexing my ass.
I spit out the jockstrap, moaning freely as he swirls inside.
“Please—master,” I croak.
He ignores me, retreating from my hole and lapping at my crack slowly, stretching my collapsing trench until I am faint of breath.
“Please. Fuck me.”
He roughly handcuffs my wrists. I grind my ass into his face, meeting his lashing tongue.
“Please.”
Zane vaults onto the worktable, crawling over me till I’m buried in his cool shadow.
He grabs my hair, tugging, making me twist my neck and look into his eyes.
He rolls his tongue along the corner of his half-open mouth, nibbling it. I jut my ass out permissively, my eyes widening.
“I didn’t have a problem with you pretending to be one of the guys,” Zane says. “I thought Chris was the one pushing to be my girl. But you can’t let him take that away from you.” Zane grabs my underwear, pulling it back, and letting the waistband snap back against the bottom of my ass. “You need to affirm that in my eyes, you are my pussy. My BITCH.”
I sigh. “There’s little more you can do to emasculate me at this point—short of cutting my balls off.”
Zane breathes in my ear. “Don’t give me ideas.”
I whine like a puppy.
“The whole reason for putting something in your mouth,” Zane says, balling up his jockstrap, “is to make you shut the FUCK UP.” He shoves the black jockstrap back in my mouth. Then, he pulls his red one off the worktable, stretching it around my head, making me wear it on my face, one of his signature moves. The second one holds the first in place, obscuring my vision, and feeding my nostrils the stench of Zane’s crotch.
My eyes roll back; I push my ass up as high as it will go. Zane drags his cock along my moist trench. He puts his tight weight on me, lining his cock along my crack.
He brushes the hair away from my ear. “Miss me—faggot?”
He slowly pulls off my new underwear, which didn’t cover up much of anything to begin with. I can only imagine what he sees: A faggot princess snorting his crotch sweat, shucking off a tight, silk fabric prison, eviscerating its half-ass job of shielding her pussy from him.
“I own this ass,” Zane says, palming my ass cheeks. He kneads them twice over, breathing in my ear. “I own you.”
He prods my hole.
“I’m in the mood to fuck slave pussy tonight.”
Despite the handcuffs, I can still reach my ass cheeks and pull them slightly further apart.
I sniff and lick Zane’s jockstrap, shaking.
He powers his cock inside.
---
“What’s there to discuss?” Damerae says, frowning at the stupid question Mr. Andrews asked. “Democrats want justice. Republicans find that inconvenient. It’s no debate at all.”
“Please,” Cynthia says. “Democrats are the biggest phonies. Pro-justice? Democrats bribe their voters. And guess who pays for it? What’s fair about that?”
I could speak out. A couple months ago, I would have. But—I just don’t see the point anymore.
Zane’s voice booms and my ears perk up.
“Whenever people seem to hate each other as much as Democrats and Republicans, you know they must secretly love each other. It’s like Romeo and Juliet.”
I feel a prickling sensation in my balls.
A few people exchange smirks, but most are too caught up taking sides.
Damerae’s eyes flash. “How could you be neutral? You’ve been behind bars. You’ve been caged. You’ve seen the callous non-solutions the Republicans have to offer.”
Cynthia blinks twice. “Anything bad that happened to Zane he deserved twice over.”
“I don’t believe in wishing bad things for people,” Damerae says. “Even Zane. Have you been listening this whole year, Cynthia? The history of America is the history of one culture pillaging and wrecking everything it touches. Democrats are phonies? At least they don’t run directly away from humility, straight off a cliff.”
“Sure they do. That’s all they do.”
“Aren’t they sweet together?” Zane asks.
“Enough,” Damerae says. “I’m no Romeo.”
“I never said you were,” Zane says. “You’re clearly playing Juliet.”
“Whatever. You are sexist. Racist. Probably every ‘ist’ there is.”
Cynthia chuckles. “Democrats at their finest. Everyone who disagrees is a bigot! At this point, being privileged is at least as stigmatized as anything else.”
“Both of you sicken me,” Damerae grumbles.
“The Mantague’s send their finest,” Cynthia whispers.
I choke back pointless words.
Zane laughs.
“Revulsion. It’s is a defense mechanism, shielding a culture from complications deemed too taxing. Fabricating exploitable social strata. The hatred protects people from looking into the painful, shadowy mirror of their desires that outsiders reflect.” He pauses, taking a moment to stare at ceiling tiles, giving my dick time to hoist full mast.
Then he barrels onward. “The two parties, with their dimorphic proclivities, could each be good for something--could each provide the other with a missing piece. They could sculpt and nurture one another into something more complete. The lust to win--is not always so productive. Not if people fail to see they are consumed by the strata that has them so vainly lost.”
For a moment there is silence. Then Cynthia cuts back in. “Eh. You’d be a lousy casting director. Why does Damerae get to be Juliet?”
“Because,” Zane says, “Democrats are pussies and Republicans are dicks.”
“Enough!” Mr. Andrews says, looking up from his computer. “I should have known you can’t have one serious conversation about politics, Zane. This might not have been a farce, but of course you have to ruin everything. Go see the counsellor, before I give you after school detention.” Mr. Andrews snarls at the general class. “Anyone else want to be sent out?”
I raise my hand.
---
I’m a bit better with the wheel today. Not quite sure what I’m making, but it hasn’t fallen apart yet.
“Can I talk to you in the hall?”
I look up from my craft. The sweetness has dulled in those blue eyes.
“Hey, Calvin,” I say, a bit amused. “It’s the middle of class. What are you doing here?”
“Faked a bathroom run. This is important. Let me talk to you a second.”
Calvin has developed a bit of nerve. You’d think the art teacher would at least ask what Calvin was doing, crashing our class. Granted, she does have a bit of a reputation for being hands-off.
I roll my eyes. “Fine,” I say, abandoning my post.
Calvin makes sure the door is shut before he speaks. “We have to do something about Zane. He needs to be brought down.”
“Why?”
“Because—he’s totally deranged and things are completely out of control?”
“I think he’s the only one that makes sense. He’s in complete control. That’s the idea.”
“Zane is not a good person.”
“What are you talking about? Zane is the definition of a good person.”
“You must at least acknowledge that Zane is not always nice.”
“Life isn’t about always being nice. Native Americans were nice. Look where that got them.”
“Being mean wouldn’t have helped them either. They just didn’t have the power to change what was happening.”
“Sure.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“I don’t know. I’m not—without empathy. But how do you know you are right, trying to bring down Zane? What if you are just coming up with an intellectual defense for mistreating him? Maybe you should have asked Chris for help instead.”
“Chris isn’t built for adversity like you are! He doesn’t have tolerance for it. You are the best chance I’ve got.”
“Then you have no chance at all.”
Calvin’s lip quivers. “Don’t you understand? Don’t you understand I want to help you? That I care about you? That this isn’t just about Coach sending me anymore? That it never really was in the first place?” He sniffs. “That I can’t stand what Zane has done?”
“Because you don’t have the tolerance for it either. But I don’t need your help. Or want it. Don’t come to me with something like this again, Calvin. If you do, I may have to teach you a lesson.”
Calvin turns away, his sorrowful expression chipping away at the fortress of my mind.
I go back to the Art Room to clean off the wheel—but that’s it for me. I’m ready to check out of reality for the rest of the day, and check back into Travis-land.
I conjure Zane up in my mind, dropping to my hands and knees before him.
I salivate like a lowly animal.
Barely comprehending the Master I live to serve, but serving faithfully anyway.
I have to watch out or I’ll cream my shorts, right here in the middle of school. Without Zane’s permission.
I slap my cheek, willing my lust to relinquish its vice-grip on me. Struggling to contain it. To keep my mind united.
As soon as the day ends, I split.
I may finally have found a routine I look forward to.
I float dreamlike back to Zane’s place—it’s hazier the second time around. I lie down on the worktable, shoving my ass up and snuggling into the pillow.
Slowly climb the pyramid
The pharaoh sleeps under
You can’t sense which way is up
In afterlives you plunder
This time, I awaken from the haze with a cock swinging around, bouncing back and forth between my lips and Master’s sticky balls.
I crane my neck up, gazing past Zane’s patchwork abdominals and dense pectorals, and into his fierce eyes.
He glares at me, and I avert my gaze.
A reservoir of sweat glistens in the shadow of the “v” where Zane’s abdominals cut toward his crotch. I curl my tongue under the ridge, sweeping out the salty spice.
Master grates my hair and claws at the back of my head. “Damn, you are such a fucking faggot. I bet you really would just lie there and let me carve off your balls. Do you have any self-respect? Even a single pathetic shred?”
I drag my tongue along. The precipice points me sharply onward.
“What’s to respect?” I croak. I open wide, stick my tongue out, and reposition my open cunt-face. My lips draw precariously closer to the head of the growing, twisted, uncut cock till it dominates my visual field.
Zane grips my head with both hands. “You really want my cock, don’t you fag?”
I sniff in the dirty flavor. “Uh-huh.”
He reaches out, grips my balls, and squeezes hard. “I just don’t even know what to do with you anymore.”
“Huh.”
The truth is, he knows exactly what to do with me.
He fucks my faggot face. At first I slurp and smack my lips, but soon that gets in the way, so I open wide till my jaw clicks, helping him use me. My mental faculties disintegrate—the only purpose of my head is to give the ultimate pleasure, taking any pain Master awards me in the process.
Nothing else matters.
---
Zane grabs me after U.S. History. “There’s something on your mind.”
Is it the next day already? They run together.
I clear my throat. “I’m trying not to let it wander, sir.”
“And yet it does.”
I stare at him. Afraid to look into his eyes, I watch his lips curl.
“Do you think girls are better at complementing guys than cundangos are?” I ask.
“It’s not a debate that people will allow to take place,” Zane says, shrugging. “You saw Cynthia and Damerae going at it. Their minds clamp down like skin stretching around a wound. They just refuse to let it in. It’s about evil deviants or evil bigots. No one is really objective.”
“But why would that stop YOU? What do you think?”
“Men and women tend to favor certain roles. Our sense of masculinity and femininity helps compose everyone--socially. Different people are better prepared for different situations. But you don’t have to be a woman to show femininity.”
“So you don’t wish I was really a girl?”
Zane pauses. “Women and men have evolved to produce the best children they can, and their behavior often echoes this. Cundangos have evolved to disappear, and their behavior is whatever vestigial patchwork of masculinity and femininity gets them through life.”
“Disappear? Have you seen Ru Paul’s Drag Race?”
“A short-term cover up. A flash in the pan.”
I pause. “So you are sad…you can’t knock me up? You can’t make something more—perpetual—with me?”
“Maybe a bit,” Zane says. “But it’s not that big a deal to me.”
“You sound so cavalier. But you’d hate it if someone thought of you as feminine. As diplomatic, even. I mean, why get those tattoos if you don’t care about social stuff? If you don’t care about how you are perceived? You don’t escape culture, let alone fix it. You just trade one issue for another.”
Zane pulls me in, whispering into my ear. “You assume I want to fix culture. But you heard Damerae and Cynthia going at it. There is no—fixing--that amount of bitterness. I’d just as soon let it—END. I’m not that sentimental. I don’t mind toppling things. I like to rebuild things from the ashes on up.” He backs off of me, sneering. “I want you to come to wrestling today.”
I look down. “I just can’t pretend I’m one of you anymore.”
“Who says you have to? I’m not looking to WRESTLE you, punk.” He smirks at me. “I had something else in mind.”
“I can’t show my face there.”
“So don’t,” Zane says. He tosses me a black ski mask. “Let me tell you exactly what you are going to do.”
He leans forward and breathes in my ear slowly.
I close my eyes, my heart thumping, as I absorb his words.
---
I open my eyes, knowing that I’m naked.
Zane had given me the ski mask, to shroud my obscene face.
I slowly pull it down, flattening my prickly hair, rolling it over my cheeks.
Like a whore who won’t kiss, it’s reassuring to hold a little back. It’s sweet to invert which parts are private.
My dick swings; my balls bounce; my slave pussy twitches.
I push it up, getting in the position.
I’m in the room with the mats. My heartbeat chugs along. If someone besides Zane finds me…
They’ll think I’ve gone mad.
The odds are low. No one frequents this corner of the school, and on Fridays, Coach tends to let the team get some fresh air by working out on the football field. Besides, the doors are locked, meaning only Zane or someone with keys can get in.
But what if Coach finds me like this?
The lock clicks. I hold my breath.
I see the hawk of hair cut through the doorway before the rest of him. He leers at me, closing the door and locking it again, dropping the lock pick.
I turn my head, burying my facemask in the mat, blackening the world around me. I spread my legs out slightly.
Zane pushes down on my head and blows in my ear. “Hey, faggot. Do you miss men pinning you down here?”
“Yes, sir.”
He slides his hand down my back, gripping my ass. He drags his finger through the trench, needling my hole, before pulling on my balls firmly, drawing them as far away from my body as they will comfortably go.
Then he pulls a bit further.
I whimper.
He grabs my hands and cuffs them, chafing my wrists. Then he plants a kiss on the hill of my ass.
I writhe around; he repositions his legs to pin down my triceps; I feel a tug on my balls again.
Zane tongue-jabs the soft spot of my sack between the balls. Then he laps at my sack, getting it all wet. He ignores my shuddering and grunting.
He sweeps up the middle line of my ball sack, tonguing my perineum till he reaches my hole.
“I’m yours,” I murmur.
He plunges his tongue inside. I push my ass up into his face.
He spreads my ass cheeks wide apart and licks my hole.
A shiver runs down my spine; my hole clenches; Zane exults.
“Your body and mind aren’t at war anymore.”
Once, as tentative allies, they battled Zane. He took ownership and pitted them against each other. Like a cock fighter toying with lesser animals.
Divide. Conquer. Master.
“Fuck me.”
My voice is muffled. The ski mask has slits for eyes, but no hole for my mouth or nose.
“Hold your horses, princess.”
My chapped lip snags on fabric.
“What if—someone notices you are gone from practice?”
“Coach expects me to miss a bit. We’re supposed to be convincing you to re-join the team.”
“We?”
On cue, someone bangs on the door.
“Right,” Zane says, stroking my back. He gets up and struts to the door, knocking rhythmically.
The person on the other side knocks back, finishing the refrain.
Satisfied with the rhythm, Zane opens the door, ushering his cohort inside.
I steal a look, the sight obscured a bit by the mask. Zane locks the door behind him.
Eduardo.
“What the fuck?” Eduardo says, throwing his head back, bearing his teeth, and letting out a hearty laugh. “Who would let this happen to them?”
“It didn’t happen TO coin. Coin made it happen. Coin was what happened.”
“Hell. Look at that bitch ass! How many girls have an ass like that?”
“Just this one.”
“And you really just—walk over and shove your cock inside?”
“When I want to.”
“I dunno. It just seems—not possible.”
“Because you can’t imagine me getting my thick dong in there? Or just the idea is unthinkable?”
“Both.”
Zane looms over me. I hear his jockstrap brushes against his skin, I see the color flash in the corner of my eye. Then it droops to the floor.
He spits in his hand.
click Click CLICK.
I feel the hardness stressing my pucker.
My hole opens and imbibes his cock, inch after twisting inch.
“Holy fuck,” Eduardo croaks, awestruck. “It just SWALLOWED it right up.”
“That’s what it does,” Zane says, patting my ass.
His cock goes in easily, and yet, it’s still a deeply compacting sensation, followed by an equally hollowing one. I gape, my lips scratching against the mask again.
Zane takes note, grabbing my head and tilting it back.
“She likes to do things with her mouth,” Zane says. He rolls the mask up some, blinding me, but exposing my mouth and nose to the cool air. He drags his fingers over my open lips, and I kiss his palm softly.
He drives his cock inside my ass.
My body rocks forward; I gape.
Something salty, meaty, and moist ensnares my senses. I snort it in. Dewy barbs of hair prickles my face. I nestle forward, planting my lips.
Eduardo gasps, flexing his arm around my head, forcing me deeper. “You’re right, man! This puta is going to town on my armpit. What the hell? That’s fuckin’ sick, man.”
Lalo doesn’t seem too interested in stopping me.
“You owe me twenty more bucks,” Zane says, hammering me.
“No man—the bet was—he wouldn’t lick my ass.”
“You really think he won’t, at this point?”
“Only one way to find out.” Eduardo releases my face, tapping my cheek playfully. “We’re supposed to be convincing you to join the team, puta.”
“I know I’m not one of you,” I say, my voice cracking. “It’s like you said.”
“That was back when YOU didn’t understand. But now you do. You don’t actually have to wrestle. You can be the team cundango. Take turns giving me and Zane head at the back of the bus.”
Zane throttles me, and my tongue droops out of my open mouth. I leave it there, tilting my head towards where I would expect it to be if I could look into Eduardo’s eyes.
All I see is darkness.
“If Zane wants.”
“What do you think, Zane?”
“I think coin should lick your ass.”
There’s a brief scuffle between them. I feel Eduardo’s body flipping; I hear the brush of his boxers coming down.
Zane pushes my head forward, into a new pit. It’s similar to the one before, but muskier, spicier, and danker. The flavor is more consuming. Slowly, I tongue the trench, sniffing deeply.
“HO-LY SHI-IT. What is wrong with this faggot?”
“She loves eating ass. It’s not her fault. Don’t be mean.”
Eduardo’s hole tightens around my tongue.
I prod it till it opens slightly, slurping playfully.
“You keep saying she,” Eduardo breathes. “But it’s not quite right, is it? Travis still has muscles. Still has—the energy--you’d expect from a man. Just none of the attitude.”
Zane nibbles my shoulder. “Faggot has the libido of a stud, with the deference of a bitch.”
“A cundango,” Eduardo says between gasps. “A fuckin’ cundango whore. Fuck it. I need to get off.”
I whimper.
“Cundango wouldn’t suck my dick earlier,” Eduardo says, pulling my face out of his ass. “Isn’t that right?”
“Mmn-hmm.”
“Why?”
“Zane—I only suck Zane’s.”
I lie there--waiting--as they grab the reins of the conversation.
“So—I guess your fag won’t do just anything,” Eduardo says.
“Itching for another bet?” Zane says, slowing his thrusts.
“Twenty bucks?”
“How about fourty?”
“Aww, man!”
“Don’t be such a piker.”
“I’m gonna be fuckin’ broke.”
“Probably. Isn’t it a win-win? You either get your money back—or get another go at the sweet mouth that has you bouncing off the walls.”
“Fuck, you know me too well. It’s like watching a train crash, bro. I just—can’t stop—watching it. Alright, last bet, you hustler.”
Eduardo rustles around, flipping again, then pushes my face into his balls. “You like that, mamapinga?”
I sniff his balls and shudder, turning my head away.
Eduardo drags his dick across my neckline, slugging out a line of smegma from his uncut cock.
“I can make you suck it, right, girl?” Zane says.
I nod.
I root out Eduardo’s dick and lick tentatively twice, then wrap my lips around the head.
Charcoal. Chaos. Darkness.
Coughs overtake me; I convulse; I turn my head to the side, spitting up Eduardo’s cock.
“Looks like you lost, bro—“
Just then, Zane grabs me by the back of the head and slams me down on Eduardo’s cock till it tickles my tonsils.
I roll back and forth; I wrench my wrists against the cuffs; my eyes bug out, brushing against fabric.
Necklace clenching. Metal revolving.
I whine like an animal.
Bile rises in my throat. Eduardo’s pumping dick forces it back down.
I’m going to die.
I gag. I choke. I flex every muscle; I strain every vein.
I stretch as far as I can go, as they pound me to the brink.
Zane pulls on my head, craning my back a little further.
I can barely breathe. My throat is on fire.
I collapse; the battle driven from me.
Eduardo prods my lips with the head of his cock, testing me.
Zane twists his cock deep in my ass, teasing me.
click, Click, CLICK.
My energy floods back. Except this time, I do not struggle to fight them.
I struggle to please them.
I tongue and suck and swallow Eduardo’s cock in my throat, moaning.
I clench and pump and absorb Zane’s cock in my ass, whimpering.
I writhe and fuck myself madly.
“Jesus.”
“Faggot’s on a mission.”
I see what I had not seen before.
The vestiges of a woman who cannot bear a child; the vestiges of a man too vitiated to procreate; the vestiges of two ideals, counterpoised and inversed, shoe-horned into terminal coexistence.
With three more brutish thrusts, I feel Eduardo pulsing in my mouth. The gamey taste electrifies me from my fingertips to my toes. I swallow shot after shot after shot. I back off, and four more shots blemish my neck and mask.
Zane, emboldened by yet another victory, lets loose on my ass, gutting me till I’m numb.
Eduardo lets me suck the leaky head of his cock as I’m utterly swamped by the darkness.
Blinded, yet full of faith, I assimilate their essence into me.
---
Feedback keeps me in the mood to write, edit, and brainstorm. :)
email: krazytop@gmail.com
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Part XXIII
I see now with the sterility of an anthropologist.
The push and pull is more than the game of courtship; it’s the game of life.
Every conversation, every action, every movement stinks of them now. I can almost see, almost feel the aura around people, like the blurry, smoky pins Zane put in me.
They interact; they bark at one another; they babble. They settle in on egalitarianism, or dominance, or submission. Cooperation, parasitism, hosting. They decide if each social contract is tabled or sealed or shattered.
The ideals people preach are not soulful promises of how people carry themselves: there exist shy racists and bossy civil rights advocates. Ideals are self-serving, dynamic, unflinching things. Each, arguably, is a life of its own, though not a lonely one. As pioneering DNA, they are viral. They infect people and organizations, glorifying the inversion of purpose and identity. Ideals become good at spreading or they are swamped and felled by competitors.
Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.
Am I standing up for myself? Is that ostentatious power?
Am I generous? Is that ostentatious weakness?
And tomorrow, when culture’s ideals evolve still, will the answers to those questions be the same?
I’m generous with Zane.
Today, maybe you think he’s taking advantage of me.
Tomorrow, maybe you’ll think I’m a saint.
---
I slam my singlet down on the desk.
“I’m quitting the team.”
“Travis—“
“Don’t try to talk me out of it, Uncle.”
“It’s Coach.”
“Whatever.”
“We need you. You are the soul of the team. People see your improvement, and they get pumped up. They want to compete.”
“Well I don’t. Thanks for what you’ve done for me, Uncle. I’m just not a wrestler. Not anymore.”
“Then what are you, son?”
A faggot. A barking animal. A sliver of nothing.
My ass clenches around my plug.
“A cundango.”
“What is that? Is that some of Eduardo’s slang? Hey? Get back here!”
But I don’t. I don’t care about authority figures anymore.
Except one.
---
There are just shadows and me in the hallways.
I drift past the bio lab I like to haunt, but it stings too much of the past today.
I wander into the physics lab, the class I’m signed up for next year.
There are little ramps stacked. Used to measure velocity. I heard that’s the first lab. I roll the marble down the ramp, watching as it clinks along the countertop.
I catch it.
Newton and Einstein were mentioned in my history books.
I smirk.
The past whispers to me no matter what I do.
Last year, in World History, I remember getting lost in the photo of Newton holding up a triangle to the light.
That was before Isaac Newton ruined Leibniz’s life.
Leibniz had simultaneously invented Calculus and wanted some share of Newton’s credit. Newton had the Royal Society in his back pocket, and they made Leibniz a laughingstock. The man became a reclusive drunkard soon after.
This morning, Mr. Andrews mentioned Einstein when we studied World War II.
He wrote a letter to Roosevelt. Urging him to create the nuclear bomb. For the second consecutive war claiming to end all wars.
Those two scientists really had a way with forces.
Newton saw gravity one way, and Einstein saw it another.
I speculated once that people aren’t good for more than half an idea. But maybe it’s just a fraction of that. Or a fraction of a fraction. Our conception of the truth doesn’t settle; it bounces; it inverts.
The times have a core spirit, a zeitgeist, that feels incontrovertible to the people trapped inside. Questioning the fundamentals is a special kind of heresy--the height of bad ethos—for it undermines the magnum opus of an entire culture.
In search of truth, people question anyway.
Newton and Einstein may have believed they couldn’t determine everything, and in particular, that some people just weren’t worth the risk. But they believed that with the right tools, someone could figure it all out.
No one agrees on even that anymore.
---
I slip back into the hallway and wander till my ears prickle at the harmony of laughter.
I had made my way past the kiln, past the school’s hearth.
Roosevelt bounces around in my mind. I do fancy a fireside chat.
I make my way inside.
“Hey Travis! You here for Art Club?”
It’s Cynthia. Chris’s girlfriend. She strikes me as so fake, I kind of want to punch her, just to see what happens. Where’s Zane when you need him for a good bet? My guess is that a bunch of plastic and rubber and cockroaches will pop out of her. She’s like the boogeyman in Nightmare Before Christmas.
“Last time we talked, you told me my pottery looked like a dick,” I say.
One of her friends got to her, didn’t they? She won’t act cruel around them.
I wish I knew those friends better.
Cynthia even has to keep her paranoia in check.
I’ve wondered—is paranoid the right word to describe someone who is unhealthily obsessed with a partner who is really cheating?
Maybe I should tell Cynthia just how far Chris has shoved his cock up my ass.
“I was just trying to break the ice,” Cynthia says. “You know you are one of the best sculptors. You’ll probably win a prize at the art show.”
I’d gotten second place in the ceramics portion last year, for a vase I’d done. Calvin’s older brother Brett had gotten first. But now that he graduated, I guess that made me a frontrunner. I’d always revered him. Copied him really. No one ever gave him hell for pursuing both art and sports. Not like they’d given me.
But I wasn’t maligned for what I’d done. It was for how I was perceived.
As a freak. And everything else just morphed into further evidence of that.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at wrestling practice?” Cynthia asked meekly.
“I quit.”
“Why?”
I might as well be a zoo animal, for all the stares I get.
“Because I suck.”
There is a bit of a pause.
“No one is using the pottery wheel,” Cynthia says.
I wrinkle my lips and make my way over, trying to find peace in the clay spinning through my palms.
But there’s no creative will in me today.
Everything I start collapses.
A small part of me hopes they aren’t still watching, but mostly, I don’t care.
---
I cut away from Art Club after not too long.
I am to get there before Zane finishes wrestling practice—those were the instructions he gave me, when he granted permission to quit the team.
428 Cuyahoga Dr.
Not the main house—not that concrete slab monstrosity that seems to vaguely concede that people need to live in something.
But in the back, in the “dog house” as he called it. Zane didn’t want me in his home without him. Waiting in the old tool shed built by his father makes for a fine compromise.
I don’t hear the frogs or cicadas now, as I creep through the forest.
I only hear my feet chomping away at the leaves. They slip beneath me, rimmed with a bit of ghost-grey frost.
I see the shed before I see the house, framed by trees and leaves. I brush a branch to the side and look on, my heart slowing.
I could just go home, right?
I could walk away from all this?
Inside my mind, there is laughter. Walk away from Zane? Walk away from everything?
That would be like the moon walking away from the earth. My life revolves around him.
I’d rather live a real life as a faggot than a fake life as a man.
But even that’s obscuring the details.
There is no ‘rather’. Not really.
I will do what Zane says. I will.
I circle round the shed, pushing the old door open. The musty hinges groan at me; the door swings at a bit of an angle.
Zane helps me understand.
The light switch is one of those archaic pull-down cords made of little brass beads. I find it easily, but not before a few sticky, clingy cobwebs find me.
Wooden shelves have been nailed right into the walls. Every inch is cluttered with rusty tools and jars. A little hole in the bottom corner of the room prickles my senses, and I half-expect little whiskers to nudge through at any moment.
A chill runs down my spine.
Am I walking into Zane’s torture chamber?
Run. The little voice in my head. Run.
I quell it, streaking my hand along the work table. A plush, purple pillow sits on it, holding down a note.
Cunt-face,
Glad you made it to the dog house. You’ll notice under your pillow (you’re welcome!) is a new pair of underwear.
Now that you are no longer a wrestler, you are forbidden from wearing jockstraps. Those you will return to me.
Put on your new underwear, but only part way, so some of your ass is exposed. That’s how prison bitches do it, to be accessible, and I miss it. :(
Wait in the faggot pussy position on the worktable. Brainstorm what I want to see when I get home from a tough workout with the guys. Soon I’ll take care of my little faggot princess.
Kisses,
Zane
The underwear is pink.
I disrobe and put it on part-way, leaving the cleavage of my ass exposed.
Then I lie down on the worktable, jut my ass up, and nuzzle into the pillow.
Slowly, I drift away.
---
Soothing, wet warmth blankets my hole.
“Mmf!” I groan, biting down on the musky jockstrap. How did that get in my mouth? Master must have manipulated me in my daze.
What a way to get awoken.
I swivel my head back, my view obscured by the hills of my own ass. In the vale between, I see Zane’s piercing eyes and the smoky fringe of Mohawk hair.
His eyes flash as he licks my hole, prodding the star.
My hole clenches, hugging his tongue as it digs inside. I buck, flexing my ass.
I spit out the jockstrap, moaning freely as he swirls inside.
“Please—master,” I croak.
He ignores me, retreating from my hole and lapping at my crack slowly, stretching my collapsing trench until I am faint of breath.
“Please. Fuck me.”
He roughly handcuffs my wrists. I grind my ass into his face, meeting his lashing tongue.
“Please.”
Zane vaults onto the worktable, crawling over me till I’m buried in his cool shadow.
He grabs my hair, tugging, making me twist my neck and look into his eyes.
He rolls his tongue along the corner of his half-open mouth, nibbling it. I jut my ass out permissively, my eyes widening.
“I didn’t have a problem with you pretending to be one of the guys,” Zane says. “I thought Chris was the one pushing to be my girl. But you can’t let him take that away from you.” Zane grabs my underwear, pulling it back, and letting the waistband snap back against the bottom of my ass. “You need to affirm that in my eyes, you are my pussy. My BITCH.”
I sigh. “There’s little more you can do to emasculate me at this point—short of cutting my balls off.”
Zane breathes in my ear. “Don’t give me ideas.”
I whine like a puppy.
“The whole reason for putting something in your mouth,” Zane says, balling up his jockstrap, “is to make you shut the FUCK UP.” He shoves the black jockstrap back in my mouth. Then, he pulls his red one off the worktable, stretching it around my head, making me wear it on my face, one of his signature moves. The second one holds the first in place, obscuring my vision, and feeding my nostrils the stench of Zane’s crotch.
My eyes roll back; I push my ass up as high as it will go. Zane drags his cock along my moist trench. He puts his tight weight on me, lining his cock along my crack.
He brushes the hair away from my ear. “Miss me—faggot?”
He slowly pulls off my new underwear, which didn’t cover up much of anything to begin with. I can only imagine what he sees: A faggot princess snorting his crotch sweat, shucking off a tight, silk fabric prison, eviscerating its half-ass job of shielding her pussy from him.
“I own this ass,” Zane says, palming my ass cheeks. He kneads them twice over, breathing in my ear. “I own you.”
He prods my hole.
“I’m in the mood to fuck slave pussy tonight.”
Despite the handcuffs, I can still reach my ass cheeks and pull them slightly further apart.
I sniff and lick Zane’s jockstrap, shaking.
He powers his cock inside.
---
“What’s there to discuss?” Damerae says, frowning at the stupid question Mr. Andrews asked. “Democrats want justice. Republicans find that inconvenient. It’s no debate at all.”
“Please,” Cynthia says. “Democrats are the biggest phonies. Pro-justice? Democrats bribe their voters. And guess who pays for it? What’s fair about that?”
I could speak out. A couple months ago, I would have. But—I just don’t see the point anymore.
Zane’s voice booms and my ears perk up.
“Whenever people seem to hate each other as much as Democrats and Republicans, you know they must secretly love each other. It’s like Romeo and Juliet.”
I feel a prickling sensation in my balls.
A few people exchange smirks, but most are too caught up taking sides.
Damerae’s eyes flash. “How could you be neutral? You’ve been behind bars. You’ve been caged. You’ve seen the callous non-solutions the Republicans have to offer.”
Cynthia blinks twice. “Anything bad that happened to Zane he deserved twice over.”
“I don’t believe in wishing bad things for people,” Damerae says. “Even Zane. Have you been listening this whole year, Cynthia? The history of America is the history of one culture pillaging and wrecking everything it touches. Democrats are phonies? At least they don’t run directly away from humility, straight off a cliff.”
“Sure they do. That’s all they do.”
“Aren’t they sweet together?” Zane asks.
“Enough,” Damerae says. “I’m no Romeo.”
“I never said you were,” Zane says. “You’re clearly playing Juliet.”
“Whatever. You are sexist. Racist. Probably every ‘ist’ there is.”
Cynthia chuckles. “Democrats at their finest. Everyone who disagrees is a bigot! At this point, being privileged is at least as stigmatized as anything else.”
“Both of you sicken me,” Damerae grumbles.
“The Mantague’s send their finest,” Cynthia whispers.
I choke back pointless words.
Zane laughs.
“Revulsion. It’s is a defense mechanism, shielding a culture from complications deemed too taxing. Fabricating exploitable social strata. The hatred protects people from looking into the painful, shadowy mirror of their desires that outsiders reflect.” He pauses, taking a moment to stare at ceiling tiles, giving my dick time to hoist full mast.
Then he barrels onward. “The two parties, with their dimorphic proclivities, could each be good for something--could each provide the other with a missing piece. They could sculpt and nurture one another into something more complete. The lust to win--is not always so productive. Not if people fail to see they are consumed by the strata that has them so vainly lost.”
For a moment there is silence. Then Cynthia cuts back in. “Eh. You’d be a lousy casting director. Why does Damerae get to be Juliet?”
“Because,” Zane says, “Democrats are pussies and Republicans are dicks.”
“Enough!” Mr. Andrews says, looking up from his computer. “I should have known you can’t have one serious conversation about politics, Zane. This might not have been a farce, but of course you have to ruin everything. Go see the counsellor, before I give you after school detention.” Mr. Andrews snarls at the general class. “Anyone else want to be sent out?”
I raise my hand.
---
I’m a bit better with the wheel today. Not quite sure what I’m making, but it hasn’t fallen apart yet.
“Can I talk to you in the hall?”
I look up from my craft. The sweetness has dulled in those blue eyes.
“Hey, Calvin,” I say, a bit amused. “It’s the middle of class. What are you doing here?”
“Faked a bathroom run. This is important. Let me talk to you a second.”
Calvin has developed a bit of nerve. You’d think the art teacher would at least ask what Calvin was doing, crashing our class. Granted, she does have a bit of a reputation for being hands-off.
I roll my eyes. “Fine,” I say, abandoning my post.
Calvin makes sure the door is shut before he speaks. “We have to do something about Zane. He needs to be brought down.”
“Why?”
“Because—he’s totally deranged and things are completely out of control?”
“I think he’s the only one that makes sense. He’s in complete control. That’s the idea.”
“Zane is not a good person.”
“What are you talking about? Zane is the definition of a good person.”
“You must at least acknowledge that Zane is not always nice.”
“Life isn’t about always being nice. Native Americans were nice. Look where that got them.”
“Being mean wouldn’t have helped them either. They just didn’t have the power to change what was happening.”
“Sure.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“I don’t know. I’m not—without empathy. But how do you know you are right, trying to bring down Zane? What if you are just coming up with an intellectual defense for mistreating him? Maybe you should have asked Chris for help instead.”
“Chris isn’t built for adversity like you are! He doesn’t have tolerance for it. You are the best chance I’ve got.”
“Then you have no chance at all.”
Calvin’s lip quivers. “Don’t you understand? Don’t you understand I want to help you? That I care about you? That this isn’t just about Coach sending me anymore? That it never really was in the first place?” He sniffs. “That I can’t stand what Zane has done?”
“Because you don’t have the tolerance for it either. But I don’t need your help. Or want it. Don’t come to me with something like this again, Calvin. If you do, I may have to teach you a lesson.”
Calvin turns away, his sorrowful expression chipping away at the fortress of my mind.
I go back to the Art Room to clean off the wheel—but that’s it for me. I’m ready to check out of reality for the rest of the day, and check back into Travis-land.
I conjure Zane up in my mind, dropping to my hands and knees before him.
I salivate like a lowly animal.
Barely comprehending the Master I live to serve, but serving faithfully anyway.
I have to watch out or I’ll cream my shorts, right here in the middle of school. Without Zane’s permission.
I slap my cheek, willing my lust to relinquish its vice-grip on me. Struggling to contain it. To keep my mind united.
As soon as the day ends, I split.
I may finally have found a routine I look forward to.
I float dreamlike back to Zane’s place—it’s hazier the second time around. I lie down on the worktable, shoving my ass up and snuggling into the pillow.
Slowly climb the pyramid
The pharaoh sleeps under
You can’t sense which way is up
In afterlives you plunder
This time, I awaken from the haze with a cock swinging around, bouncing back and forth between my lips and Master’s sticky balls.
I crane my neck up, gazing past Zane’s patchwork abdominals and dense pectorals, and into his fierce eyes.
He glares at me, and I avert my gaze.
A reservoir of sweat glistens in the shadow of the “v” where Zane’s abdominals cut toward his crotch. I curl my tongue under the ridge, sweeping out the salty spice.
Master grates my hair and claws at the back of my head. “Damn, you are such a fucking faggot. I bet you really would just lie there and let me carve off your balls. Do you have any self-respect? Even a single pathetic shred?”
I drag my tongue along. The precipice points me sharply onward.
“What’s to respect?” I croak. I open wide, stick my tongue out, and reposition my open cunt-face. My lips draw precariously closer to the head of the growing, twisted, uncut cock till it dominates my visual field.
Zane grips my head with both hands. “You really want my cock, don’t you fag?”
I sniff in the dirty flavor. “Uh-huh.”
He reaches out, grips my balls, and squeezes hard. “I just don’t even know what to do with you anymore.”
“Huh.”
The truth is, he knows exactly what to do with me.
He fucks my faggot face. At first I slurp and smack my lips, but soon that gets in the way, so I open wide till my jaw clicks, helping him use me. My mental faculties disintegrate—the only purpose of my head is to give the ultimate pleasure, taking any pain Master awards me in the process.
Nothing else matters.
---
Zane grabs me after U.S. History. “There’s something on your mind.”
Is it the next day already? They run together.
I clear my throat. “I’m trying not to let it wander, sir.”
“And yet it does.”
I stare at him. Afraid to look into his eyes, I watch his lips curl.
“Do you think girls are better at complementing guys than cundangos are?” I ask.
“It’s not a debate that people will allow to take place,” Zane says, shrugging. “You saw Cynthia and Damerae going at it. Their minds clamp down like skin stretching around a wound. They just refuse to let it in. It’s about evil deviants or evil bigots. No one is really objective.”
“But why would that stop YOU? What do you think?”
“Men and women tend to favor certain roles. Our sense of masculinity and femininity helps compose everyone--socially. Different people are better prepared for different situations. But you don’t have to be a woman to show femininity.”
“So you don’t wish I was really a girl?”
Zane pauses. “Women and men have evolved to produce the best children they can, and their behavior often echoes this. Cundangos have evolved to disappear, and their behavior is whatever vestigial patchwork of masculinity and femininity gets them through life.”
“Disappear? Have you seen Ru Paul’s Drag Race?”
“A short-term cover up. A flash in the pan.”
I pause. “So you are sad…you can’t knock me up? You can’t make something more—perpetual—with me?”
“Maybe a bit,” Zane says. “But it’s not that big a deal to me.”
“You sound so cavalier. But you’d hate it if someone thought of you as feminine. As diplomatic, even. I mean, why get those tattoos if you don’t care about social stuff? If you don’t care about how you are perceived? You don’t escape culture, let alone fix it. You just trade one issue for another.”
Zane pulls me in, whispering into my ear. “You assume I want to fix culture. But you heard Damerae and Cynthia going at it. There is no—fixing--that amount of bitterness. I’d just as soon let it—END. I’m not that sentimental. I don’t mind toppling things. I like to rebuild things from the ashes on up.” He backs off of me, sneering. “I want you to come to wrestling today.”
I look down. “I just can’t pretend I’m one of you anymore.”
“Who says you have to? I’m not looking to WRESTLE you, punk.” He smirks at me. “I had something else in mind.”
“I can’t show my face there.”
“So don’t,” Zane says. He tosses me a black ski mask. “Let me tell you exactly what you are going to do.”
He leans forward and breathes in my ear slowly.
I close my eyes, my heart thumping, as I absorb his words.
---
I open my eyes, knowing that I’m naked.
Zane had given me the ski mask, to shroud my obscene face.
I slowly pull it down, flattening my prickly hair, rolling it over my cheeks.
Like a whore who won’t kiss, it’s reassuring to hold a little back. It’s sweet to invert which parts are private.
My dick swings; my balls bounce; my slave pussy twitches.
I push it up, getting in the position.
I’m in the room with the mats. My heartbeat chugs along. If someone besides Zane finds me…
They’ll think I’ve gone mad.
The odds are low. No one frequents this corner of the school, and on Fridays, Coach tends to let the team get some fresh air by working out on the football field. Besides, the doors are locked, meaning only Zane or someone with keys can get in.
But what if Coach finds me like this?
The lock clicks. I hold my breath.
I see the hawk of hair cut through the doorway before the rest of him. He leers at me, closing the door and locking it again, dropping the lock pick.
I turn my head, burying my facemask in the mat, blackening the world around me. I spread my legs out slightly.
Zane pushes down on my head and blows in my ear. “Hey, faggot. Do you miss men pinning you down here?”
“Yes, sir.”
He slides his hand down my back, gripping my ass. He drags his finger through the trench, needling my hole, before pulling on my balls firmly, drawing them as far away from my body as they will comfortably go.
Then he pulls a bit further.
I whimper.
He grabs my hands and cuffs them, chafing my wrists. Then he plants a kiss on the hill of my ass.
I writhe around; he repositions his legs to pin down my triceps; I feel a tug on my balls again.
Zane tongue-jabs the soft spot of my sack between the balls. Then he laps at my sack, getting it all wet. He ignores my shuddering and grunting.
He sweeps up the middle line of my ball sack, tonguing my perineum till he reaches my hole.
“I’m yours,” I murmur.
He plunges his tongue inside. I push my ass up into his face.
He spreads my ass cheeks wide apart and licks my hole.
A shiver runs down my spine; my hole clenches; Zane exults.
“Your body and mind aren’t at war anymore.”
Once, as tentative allies, they battled Zane. He took ownership and pitted them against each other. Like a cock fighter toying with lesser animals.
Divide. Conquer. Master.
“Fuck me.”
My voice is muffled. The ski mask has slits for eyes, but no hole for my mouth or nose.
“Hold your horses, princess.”
My chapped lip snags on fabric.
“What if—someone notices you are gone from practice?”
“Coach expects me to miss a bit. We’re supposed to be convincing you to re-join the team.”
“We?”
On cue, someone bangs on the door.
“Right,” Zane says, stroking my back. He gets up and struts to the door, knocking rhythmically.
The person on the other side knocks back, finishing the refrain.
Satisfied with the rhythm, Zane opens the door, ushering his cohort inside.
I steal a look, the sight obscured a bit by the mask. Zane locks the door behind him.
Eduardo.
“What the fuck?” Eduardo says, throwing his head back, bearing his teeth, and letting out a hearty laugh. “Who would let this happen to them?”
“It didn’t happen TO coin. Coin made it happen. Coin was what happened.”
“Hell. Look at that bitch ass! How many girls have an ass like that?”
“Just this one.”
“And you really just—walk over and shove your cock inside?”
“When I want to.”
“I dunno. It just seems—not possible.”
“Because you can’t imagine me getting my thick dong in there? Or just the idea is unthinkable?”
“Both.”
Zane looms over me. I hear his jockstrap brushes against his skin, I see the color flash in the corner of my eye. Then it droops to the floor.
He spits in his hand.
click Click CLICK.
I feel the hardness stressing my pucker.
My hole opens and imbibes his cock, inch after twisting inch.
“Holy fuck,” Eduardo croaks, awestruck. “It just SWALLOWED it right up.”
“That’s what it does,” Zane says, patting my ass.
His cock goes in easily, and yet, it’s still a deeply compacting sensation, followed by an equally hollowing one. I gape, my lips scratching against the mask again.
Zane takes note, grabbing my head and tilting it back.
“She likes to do things with her mouth,” Zane says. He rolls the mask up some, blinding me, but exposing my mouth and nose to the cool air. He drags his fingers over my open lips, and I kiss his palm softly.
He drives his cock inside my ass.
My body rocks forward; I gape.
Something salty, meaty, and moist ensnares my senses. I snort it in. Dewy barbs of hair prickles my face. I nestle forward, planting my lips.
Eduardo gasps, flexing his arm around my head, forcing me deeper. “You’re right, man! This puta is going to town on my armpit. What the hell? That’s fuckin’ sick, man.”
Lalo doesn’t seem too interested in stopping me.
“You owe me twenty more bucks,” Zane says, hammering me.
“No man—the bet was—he wouldn’t lick my ass.”
“You really think he won’t, at this point?”
“Only one way to find out.” Eduardo releases my face, tapping my cheek playfully. “We’re supposed to be convincing you to join the team, puta.”
“I know I’m not one of you,” I say, my voice cracking. “It’s like you said.”
“That was back when YOU didn’t understand. But now you do. You don’t actually have to wrestle. You can be the team cundango. Take turns giving me and Zane head at the back of the bus.”
Zane throttles me, and my tongue droops out of my open mouth. I leave it there, tilting my head towards where I would expect it to be if I could look into Eduardo’s eyes.
All I see is darkness.
“If Zane wants.”
“What do you think, Zane?”
“I think coin should lick your ass.”
There’s a brief scuffle between them. I feel Eduardo’s body flipping; I hear the brush of his boxers coming down.
Zane pushes my head forward, into a new pit. It’s similar to the one before, but muskier, spicier, and danker. The flavor is more consuming. Slowly, I tongue the trench, sniffing deeply.
“HO-LY SHI-IT. What is wrong with this faggot?”
“She loves eating ass. It’s not her fault. Don’t be mean.”
Eduardo’s hole tightens around my tongue.
I prod it till it opens slightly, slurping playfully.
“You keep saying she,” Eduardo breathes. “But it’s not quite right, is it? Travis still has muscles. Still has—the energy--you’d expect from a man. Just none of the attitude.”
Zane nibbles my shoulder. “Faggot has the libido of a stud, with the deference of a bitch.”
“A cundango,” Eduardo says between gasps. “A fuckin’ cundango whore. Fuck it. I need to get off.”
I whimper.
“Cundango wouldn’t suck my dick earlier,” Eduardo says, pulling my face out of his ass. “Isn’t that right?”
“Mmn-hmm.”
“Why?”
“Zane—I only suck Zane’s.”
I lie there--waiting--as they grab the reins of the conversation.
“So—I guess your fag won’t do just anything,” Eduardo says.
“Itching for another bet?” Zane says, slowing his thrusts.
“Twenty bucks?”
“How about fourty?”
“Aww, man!”
“Don’t be such a piker.”
“I’m gonna be fuckin’ broke.”
“Probably. Isn’t it a win-win? You either get your money back—or get another go at the sweet mouth that has you bouncing off the walls.”
“Fuck, you know me too well. It’s like watching a train crash, bro. I just—can’t stop—watching it. Alright, last bet, you hustler.”
Eduardo rustles around, flipping again, then pushes my face into his balls. “You like that, mamapinga?”
I sniff his balls and shudder, turning my head away.
Eduardo drags his dick across my neckline, slugging out a line of smegma from his uncut cock.
“I can make you suck it, right, girl?” Zane says.
I nod.
I root out Eduardo’s dick and lick tentatively twice, then wrap my lips around the head.
Charcoal. Chaos. Darkness.
Coughs overtake me; I convulse; I turn my head to the side, spitting up Eduardo’s cock.
“Looks like you lost, bro—“
Just then, Zane grabs me by the back of the head and slams me down on Eduardo’s cock till it tickles my tonsils.
I roll back and forth; I wrench my wrists against the cuffs; my eyes bug out, brushing against fabric.
Necklace clenching. Metal revolving.
I whine like an animal.
Bile rises in my throat. Eduardo’s pumping dick forces it back down.
I’m going to die.
I gag. I choke. I flex every muscle; I strain every vein.
I stretch as far as I can go, as they pound me to the brink.
Zane pulls on my head, craning my back a little further.
I can barely breathe. My throat is on fire.
I collapse; the battle driven from me.
Eduardo prods my lips with the head of his cock, testing me.
Zane twists his cock deep in my ass, teasing me.
click, Click, CLICK.
My energy floods back. Except this time, I do not struggle to fight them.
I struggle to please them.
I tongue and suck and swallow Eduardo’s cock in my throat, moaning.
I clench and pump and absorb Zane’s cock in my ass, whimpering.
I writhe and fuck myself madly.
“Jesus.”
“Faggot’s on a mission.”
I see what I had not seen before.
The vestiges of a woman who cannot bear a child; the vestiges of a man too vitiated to procreate; the vestiges of two ideals, counterpoised and inversed, shoe-horned into terminal coexistence.
With three more brutish thrusts, I feel Eduardo pulsing in my mouth. The gamey taste electrifies me from my fingertips to my toes. I swallow shot after shot after shot. I back off, and four more shots blemish my neck and mask.
Zane, emboldened by yet another victory, lets loose on my ass, gutting me till I’m numb.
Eduardo lets me suck the leaky head of his cock as I’m utterly swamped by the darkness.
Blinded, yet full of faith, I assimilate their essence into me.
---
Feedback keeps me in the mood to write, edit, and brainstorm. :)
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