Saturday, December 26, 2015
The Douchebag and the Hole, Part 17
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Taste of Power, Part 15
Part XV
Chris leans close and nibbles my lip.
His cock slaps my abdominals as he looms over me, nestling in.
He grips his shaft and prods my ass with it, tightening his fist, making depressions in my skin like raindrops pattering on the water.
Then he finds my hole. He opens his mouth, feigning surprise, raising his eyebrows.
“Chris,” I whisper.
He plunges his cock inside.
I gasp—the shock on my face looking sillier than his, I’m sure—and he tongues my open mouth.
He humps my ass with a casual, controlled flair. He builds up—he explores my body with his palms, groping my pectorals, grating my nipples, gripping my hips.
“Take it,” he whispers, his lips just past mine. I can feel the sparks as he speaks, tickling me.
“Fuck me,” I moan.
“Don’t be bossy.”
“Please…”
“Okay, slaveboy.”
My body is melting; my dick is rock solid.
I run my hand down my legs, which I had been holding up in the air for him. Once I reach my thighs, I let go of one leg and encircle my dick with my fingers, sighing.
Chris bats my wrist away. “No hands, remember?”
“I thought that just meant I couldn’t touch you?”
“NO HANDS,” He breathes, blowing in my ear.
“Yes—sir.”
His abdominals clap against me as he rocks back and forth. At first, he is positioned on his knees, with his legs slightly spread, but as he builds up, he lifts his knees off the bed, bringing his legs close together, and funneling all his weight into his thrusts, burying his cock as deep as it will go down my hole.
“Fuck,” I whimper, palming my tense thighs tightly so I am not tempted to jack off. My dick is throbbing; every fiber of my being is screaming to reach out and clasp it, to convert that infernal itch into a flood of pleasure; I bite my lip, shrieking inside my head to control myself.
With Zane, my wrists would be locked down and that would solve that. This time, Chris just expects me to obey.
My dick is flared and bulging, desperate for touch.
I clench my eyes shut and shake my head.
Chris growls.
He presses his hands against mine, interlocking our fingers, squeezing my skin. Through them, he conducts my thighs, contorting my body so that my legs fold up against my chest. My knees dig into my shoulders. With my legs folded up, Chris moves his hands to my ass, spreading my cheeks, making my hole as accessible as possible.
He rams his cock deep inside.
“Shit, Chris,” I whimper.
I know I’ll leave red imprints of my hands on my skin, but I can’t help it. I have to hold on to my flexing legs for dear life. I can’t let go.
I can’t touch my pusillanimous dick.
Once upon a time, I’d focus on the romance of it, but Zane fractured that aspect of me. I know I am to focus on being the perfect sheath for his shaft. On being a pleasure burrow.
Chris hunches forward and gnaws at my nipple.
“Hell,” I whine.
He swirls his tongue around and sucks hard. Then he bites down.
I buck into the air; my dick grazes his chest.
The contact is more than satisfying—it’s consuming.
I moan, punctuating his next few thrusts by arching my back and whipping my lower end up, grinding my dick against his torso, feeling a forbidden spark etch through my body.
“You want to please me, don’t you?” Chris asks.
“Yessir.”
Chris grabs my ass with one hand, and pushes on my abdominals with the other. “Get a grip on yourself. No wonder Zane’s so authoritative with you. You need discipline.”
He slaps my ass, and I cry out playfully, before he chews my lips again.
“Shut up,” he sighs. “And don’t let this thing become a distraction.”
He bats at my dick; it bounces back and forth before falling to a strained rest, snaking directly up my chest.
“Yes—master.”
I flex, pulling on my thighs, stretching my body open.
He drags his lips along my shoulder. “My turn to make a mark.”
He clamps down on my neck and slurps hard.
“Fuck,” I whimper, writhing around.
“Shhh,” he breathes, plunging in again and again.
“I’m yours, Chris. Your faggot.”
Chris cocks an eyebrow.
I grab Chris’s wrist and bring his hand to my lips. I slurp his palm; then I bite down softly on two fingers before gulping them into my mouth.
“Fucker,” Chris groans. As I amplify the pressure, Chris counters by cupping my head for leverage and sucking gingerly on my neck. He wallops me harder, his body clouting mine as he lances deep inside.
My mind fades as my body takes over. The only thought I cling to is the imprisonment of my superfluous dick.
Otherwise, I let go.
“C’mon, pussyboy, show me what you got,” Chris mutters.
My straining ass softens, and Chris emits a little groan.
“Hell, Travis…”
I flex my gluteus maximus, clamping my sheath around his shaft.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Chris says, his voice breaking. “Slow down.”
I taunt him with my ass, savoring the shocks jumping across Chris’s face as my tunnel grapples his cock over and over.
“I said, SLOW DOWN!” he growls. He grips my neck, pinning me tight against the bed, whipping his cock out of my ass in a quick lashing motion. I gasp reflexively at the sudden emptiness.
Chris catches his breath. “What the fuck was that?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. He releases my neck and flashes a half-smile. A cloud moves out from in front of the moon, and a bar of moonlight streams through the window, painting Chris’s sweaty body with silvery light.
I cling to him. Then, after a moment, I nuzzle into his armpit and lap.
“Don’t worry; I’m gonna finish fucking you.” He rolls me onto my stomach and lowers his voice to a whisper. “No more Mr. Nice Guy.”
He palms my ass, spreading it with both hands.
His cockhead prods and prickles me, and then, he slides it all the way back in.
I groan, pushing out.
“Fuck yeah,” Chris says. He pads my ass cheeks and then builds up, packing my ass with thrust after stinging thrust.
He tongues my ear. “I care about you, you know. You aren’t just some gay boy to take things out on. You are a troublemaker…but you are worth the trouble. You are worth fighting for.”
A hint of romance sneaks back. “I care about you, too, Chris.”
I love you.
But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Not after I’d said it to Zane too.
Would they mean anything?
And would he say them back?
Can I fall in love…anymore?
Chris wraps his arms around me, snarling. “Fuck.”
I get the sense the moment has passed. In fact, it may have confused or alienated him, because his compassionate side snuffs out.
He’s a brute.
He paws at my ass and grinds his cock in deep.
“You are my slave pussy tonight,” he says, gripping my neck for leverage.
“Yes master,” I breathe.
His thrusts build up to frenzied hammer strike.
I’m having trouble catching my breath as it is—but then, he reaches under me and grips the base of my forbidden dick.
Sparks.
I whimper, pushing my ass back into him. The moment of mercy is gone. He releases my dick and squeezes my balls, reining me in, pulling my ass high into the air.
I’m still discombobulated, whining, as Chris grabs the back of my head and twists it toward him.
“Shut up,” he says, his eyes glimmering. Then he leans forward—and kisses me.
I moan and whimper into his mouth; he smothers my noises; he tongues me down.
Harder and harder he pounds me—his slave pussy—until my mind is empty and my body is helpless.
He releases me from the kiss, turning my head back and pinning it into the pillow.
“Fuck yeah,” he says. He holds my neck for leverage as he crams his cock into me. “Fuck.”
He hastens; he hardens; he toughens up.
I’m on the edge.
I still—-love him.
He’s making—-my dreams come true.
Except—-one.
And--I’m afraid.
I’m afire—with a deep blaze that reaches the core of me.
Light flashes in front of my eyes; for a moment, it is day time; the sun breaks up clouds at the end of a storm.
My numbness dissipates and I feel his warm, firm cock entrenched inside me, and it feels like heaven. He holds me tight as he delves into me.
I let out a cracking moan; I push my ass up till it claps against his abdominals; and then—I shoot forth, volley after volley of cum, right into Chris’s prim sheets.
My quivering hole braces his shaft, clenching down.
This time, Chris doesn’t pull out.
He whips himself up, crashing down on me over and over, till I wonder if my ass might bruise.
“Fuck yeah,” he growls, pounding me to the point of no return and then some.
Maybe he was still mad about Zane. The way he was crushing me, it seemed like he was either mad about something, or just kind of…losing it.
“Fuck…” he says, chewing my neck. “Fuck…”
The sound of his body clapping against mine reverberates around the room.
“Fuck…fuck…”
“Cum inside me, Chris,” I whisper. “Mark me.”
He covers my mouth, but the damage is done. His eyes flash; he hammers me; I suck his hand; he buries his cock till his balls rest on my skin, and then he collapses on me, his mouth inches from my ear.
“Fuck,” he whispers one last time.
Then, his cum pulses deep inside me, in a stream that never seems to end.
Slowly, my eyes droop and our hearts slow. I sigh, rolling my tongue around Chris’s palm as he holds me tight. We fade into the bath of moonlight, and then into nothing at all.
---
I curl into Chris’s chest and he holds me, running his hand through my hair slowly.
“Was that okay?” he asks.
“It was like a good dream,” I say.
“I wasn’t too hard or too soft?”
I nibble his nipple in ascent.
He flexes, inflating his pectorals and wrapping me up.
I didn’t know exactly what in the world makes a god like Chris anxious, but I want to take the weight off his shoulders. He gets short of breath again—his tight refractory period is otherworldly—and he continues to stroke my hair before gripping it tight. He guides me down his hilly pectorals, through the canals of his sweat-drenched abdominals, and to his shiny, recovering shaft, which curls into the air and catches the moonlight.
“Ready for round two?” he asks.
I roll my tongue around his growing shaft, stealing a glance into his glimmering eyes before he buries my face in his balls.
--
I can’t focus at school the next day. Partly, I’m exhausted from lack of sleep and from a general feeling of being overwhelmed. I’d been deprived time to process everything, and I think I need more than the average person in the first place.
Wrestling practice is much the same. Coach surprises me as I work the weights.
“I see you lost the earring.”
“Yessir,” I say, pumping out another rep.
“Then it’s your lucky day. Damerae is back from his ankle injury, and he wants his spot back.”
Coach’s expression is blank. I sense he is still disappointed with me.
“Today?” I ask.
“Today,” he repeats. He beckons for me to follow him and we make our way across the hall.
---
I try to calm my breathing as Damerae and I hover on opposite sides of the mat. I can’t beat Damerae, can I? I look into his face. Chocolate skin, fuzzy hair—he wore it in longer dreads the rest of the year, but he cut it short during wrestling season, so that it just barely peeked out of his headgear now. Pure eyes, focused and unclouded.
I had yet to have a statement win. I got lucky at the Storm Meet, and my fight with Eduardo I won on a technicality. I needed to prove myself.
Prove you are a faggot, Zane seems to whisper. I look around, but he is nowhere to be seen.
What is wrong with me?
My heartbeat builds up, and the echoes of Zane are replaced by flashes of Chris. I try to get images from the night before out of my mind, but somehow, the thought of him soothes me.
Damerae’s arms entangle with mine, we stand across from one another, locked in place.
I can’t win like this. He’s stronger than me.
Chris said to cultivate talent. What does that mean, exactly? If Damerae is stronger, I can’t win a battle of strength. I have to do something creative—something that has a little finesse.
I grit myself, copying the move I’d seen Zane try against Chris the other day. I suddenly change directions, pulling instead of pushing, swinging both of our bodies to the mat.
We struggle; there is a lot of rolling around and flexing and grunting—but ultimately, it seems—I still cannot pin him down. No matter how I wiggle and worm, he alters tact, making the game about strength again, and overpowering me.
I’m outclassed, aren’t I? Not just in terms of strength, but in terms of skill as well.
I’m inferior.
Maybe my position isn’t meant to last.
In a desperate vie for positioning, my foot grazes his ankle, and Damerae cries out.
If push comes to shove…
I drag my foot against his, flexing out with my last burst of strength, and Damerae taps out.
A wave of guilt rolls over me--I milked his injury to win--but at least I didn’t punch him in the face or grab his balls like Eduardo or Zane might have done. What weak consolation. Damerae always strikes me as a fierce competitor, but he also always plays fair.
I cling to the JV spot—Calvin thumps my back—but the win has a tainted quality.
Damerae nods at me before taking his ankle in his palm, grimacing and rolling it under his thumb.
---
My parents’ voices carry from the other room.
“Why does he have to stay out so dang late?”
“He hasn’t been absent from school,” my dad says. “I don’t think it is drugs either—there’s nothing wrong in his eyes. Maybe we should look on the bright side. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen the inspector.”
We eat dinner. Heck—I even go so far as to describe my day.
I don’t want to risk a good thing. Even if what’s happening with Chris isn’t a purely good thing—it isn’t exactly as I imagined it—it’s nothing if not exciting.
My dad raises an eyebrow when I explain I have to work on the group project with Chris every day of the week, but they don’t fight me on it, which means that after dinner, I voyage through the forest again. Fully clothed.
A warmth courses through me—and for a moment, I don’t feel the croaking frog song echoes my pain. Instead, they are egging me on.
I DID beat Eduardo, I DID beat Damerae, I DID win the Storm Meet for my team.
I don’t have to feel guilty, do I?
I can celebrate a victory with Chris, right?
For the first time in a while I let myself smile, thumbing the shark-tooth necklace. I pause, leaning against a tree and closing my eyes. I suck in the smell and flavor of the forest and feel the world stand still, at least for a moment.
Then, something changes. Shadows fall on me, and I feel a bit cooler. The forest musk gets stronger, more animal, and suddenly, I feel sweaty skin on my lips.
I open my eyelids, wriggling, shocked; slicing green eyes, red-head Mohawk, tips mottled with black dye—Zane. I scream out; but Zane pulls me in by the back of the head, muffling my voice in his sweaty armpit.
“Shut up,” he says, his eyes sparkling--and I fall quiet.
I push him backwards; he pushes me in retaliation, and I slam into the tree.
“How many times am I going to catch you with your eyes closed?” Zane asks, smirking.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Zane yawns. “Not now, cunt-face.”
“Chris won fair and square. It’s over.”
Zane curls his lip. “Faggot pussy position.”
“Zane—“ I whimper.
“Don’t make me say it twice.”
“Zane—“
Zane lands a blow to my stomach. I can tell he held back, yet still, it makes me double over. He pushes me down to my knees.
“Faggot pussy position,” he says again calmly.
I sink forward, putting weight on my hands, feeling the leaves crumple beneath me; then I lie flat on my stomach, arching my ass into the air.
“Let out that ass.”
I bite my lip.
“NOW!”
I unbutton and unzip, rolling down my jeans and boxers, exposing my ass to the forest air.
Zane sinks down behind me, reaching under and groping my dick through my jeans. “You have a boner, faggot.”
“Zane,” I whisper. “No…”
“Don’t worry, punk.” He slides something thin and smooth between my ass cheeks, making a little wall there, as though out of cardboard. “Do me a favor and deliver this to Chris,” he says. “Don’t take it out before you get to him. It’s for his eyes only.”
“Okay,” I croak.
Leaving my boxers pushed down, Zane pulls up my jeans, zipping and buttoning them, the item still tucked safely between my ass cheeks. Then, he kisses the hill of my ass through the fabric and pushes my face into the leafy dirt, getting clumps of grime stuck to my face. “Gotta go faggot. Sorry I couldn’t fuck you.”
Afraid to move, I lie there, clenching my eyes until I am sure he is gone.
I walk delicately the rest of the way to Chris’s house, wondering if I’d let my guard down too much. It was as though every time things threatened to sort out, I got a reminder of my naiveté.
“Are you okay?” Chris asks.
“Just saw Zane,” I murmur.
Chris’s expression darkens; then, he catches me off guard by pecking me on the cheek. I blush all over and follow him down the stairs. He collapses back on the couch, spreading his legs wide and tucking an arm behind his head. “What happened?”
I bite my lip, swiveling and unbuttoning my jeans. I slide them down.
“What is that?” Chris asks.
“Zane put it there,” I say.
“Did he—“
“No, all he did was shove that up there.”
“Good,” Chris says, massaging my ass.
I lean forward, clutching my knees. Then, Chris reaches in and grabs it, making me cringe at the funny smearing sensation dragging along my skin.
I turn back. It’s an envelope, with a bit of brown crust.
I blush deeper.
“Did you read this already?” he asks.
“Zane said it was for your eyes only.”
“Good,” Chris says, running his hand through my hair. He tugs on my necklace, pulling me down to my knees.
He tows me to his crotch, where I brush my lips against the outline of his cock slowly.
He bides his time looking over the message, stroking my hair as I lose myself, nibbling and sniffing the bulge in his jeans.
Suddenly, Chris crumples up the note and tosses it behind the couch.
“What’s it say?” I whisper.
Chris unzips his jeans, thrusting slightly into the air so he can pull them down, along with his silk boxers. His balls flop out and his cock swings up, jabbing me in the face.
“He wants a rematch. Zane feels I had home court advantage. The agreement was only for a week, after all.”
“Who cares?” I say, smacking my lips against his balls. “You don’t need to win me in some game.”
“He’s raising the stakes. Loser gets their picture taken kissing the winner’s feet.”
“Can’t you just have me kiss your feet?”
I slide down Chris’s jean leg, but he pulls me back up, the silver chain digging into my neck.
“I’m doing this,” Chris says.
“Why? You don’t have to prove anything.”
“This conversation is over,” Chris says. He guides his cock through the ring my lips form. He grips my head with both hands, keeping me from wriggling away impulsively when I gag. He slams my head down, then fucks my throat hard.
His voice is low and dangerous. “This needs to happen. Let it happen.”
The contractions in my throat slow.
“Motherfucker,” Chris says, his body clapping against my face. Chris clenches my hair, growling as he thrusts in again and again. “People need to learn their lessons.”
I close my eyes as he builds up, his hard cock inflating my cheeks on its circuitous way down.
He pulls my hair till it hurts. “You can do it, bitch. You can take it without gagging.”
It had been a while since he had slung that pejorative my way. I was too far gone to fight it, too far out of sorts to even know if I wanted to.
MNMPWAH.
“That’s it, Travis,” Chris says, talking over my slurping noises.
I can sense that he is close.
I’m getting to know him in new ways.
I tighten my lips and draw in, worming my tongue around his cock.
Nails grating my hair. Deep grunting. Veins jumping.
“Fuck yeah, cocksucker,” he mutters.
He inhales, his pectorals protruding above me, blanketing me in shadow. He stomps one leg after the other.
“Let it happen,” he breathes.
I moan, stacking pressure, absorbing blow after blow to the face.
“Fuck…FUCK. FUCK!”
The underwater sensation blossoms as Chris grips my ears, disorienting me.
I steal a glance at his face, my eyes glazed over.
He smiles down at me, his gold eyes glittering, as he flexes out.
He grunts, his cock jumping. For a moment, I can’t breathe, even out of my nose. I thrash as he grips the necklace tight, his smile gone.
He holds my head down as his hearth jumps in anticipation of its next creation.
Suddenly, it’s as though I'm kissing a whirligig in a storm.
He strokes my cheek with one hand, holding me in place with the other. Calm floods through me, and my struggling deteriorates. I gulp, then gulp again and again till it’s done.
The glint of his half-smile catches my eyes, and he sighs faintly. I nuzzle into his thighs, lapping the lingering sweat from his balls.
He cradles my head as my mind melts away.
---
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---
Chris leans close and nibbles my lip.
His cock slaps my abdominals as he looms over me, nestling in.
He grips his shaft and prods my ass with it, tightening his fist, making depressions in my skin like raindrops pattering on the water.
Then he finds my hole. He opens his mouth, feigning surprise, raising his eyebrows.
“Chris,” I whisper.
He plunges his cock inside.
I gasp—the shock on my face looking sillier than his, I’m sure—and he tongues my open mouth.
He humps my ass with a casual, controlled flair. He builds up—he explores my body with his palms, groping my pectorals, grating my nipples, gripping my hips.
“Take it,” he whispers, his lips just past mine. I can feel the sparks as he speaks, tickling me.
“Fuck me,” I moan.
“Don’t be bossy.”
“Please…”
“Okay, slaveboy.”
My body is melting; my dick is rock solid.
I run my hand down my legs, which I had been holding up in the air for him. Once I reach my thighs, I let go of one leg and encircle my dick with my fingers, sighing.
Chris bats my wrist away. “No hands, remember?”
“I thought that just meant I couldn’t touch you?”
“NO HANDS,” He breathes, blowing in my ear.
“Yes—sir.”
His abdominals clap against me as he rocks back and forth. At first, he is positioned on his knees, with his legs slightly spread, but as he builds up, he lifts his knees off the bed, bringing his legs close together, and funneling all his weight into his thrusts, burying his cock as deep as it will go down my hole.
“Fuck,” I whimper, palming my tense thighs tightly so I am not tempted to jack off. My dick is throbbing; every fiber of my being is screaming to reach out and clasp it, to convert that infernal itch into a flood of pleasure; I bite my lip, shrieking inside my head to control myself.
With Zane, my wrists would be locked down and that would solve that. This time, Chris just expects me to obey.
My dick is flared and bulging, desperate for touch.
I clench my eyes shut and shake my head.
Chris growls.
He presses his hands against mine, interlocking our fingers, squeezing my skin. Through them, he conducts my thighs, contorting my body so that my legs fold up against my chest. My knees dig into my shoulders. With my legs folded up, Chris moves his hands to my ass, spreading my cheeks, making my hole as accessible as possible.
He rams his cock deep inside.
“Shit, Chris,” I whimper.
I know I’ll leave red imprints of my hands on my skin, but I can’t help it. I have to hold on to my flexing legs for dear life. I can’t let go.
I can’t touch my pusillanimous dick.
Once upon a time, I’d focus on the romance of it, but Zane fractured that aspect of me. I know I am to focus on being the perfect sheath for his shaft. On being a pleasure burrow.
Chris hunches forward and gnaws at my nipple.
“Hell,” I whine.
He swirls his tongue around and sucks hard. Then he bites down.
I buck into the air; my dick grazes his chest.
The contact is more than satisfying—it’s consuming.
I moan, punctuating his next few thrusts by arching my back and whipping my lower end up, grinding my dick against his torso, feeling a forbidden spark etch through my body.
“You want to please me, don’t you?” Chris asks.
“Yessir.”
Chris grabs my ass with one hand, and pushes on my abdominals with the other. “Get a grip on yourself. No wonder Zane’s so authoritative with you. You need discipline.”
He slaps my ass, and I cry out playfully, before he chews my lips again.
“Shut up,” he sighs. “And don’t let this thing become a distraction.”
He bats at my dick; it bounces back and forth before falling to a strained rest, snaking directly up my chest.
“Yes—master.”
I flex, pulling on my thighs, stretching my body open.
He drags his lips along my shoulder. “My turn to make a mark.”
He clamps down on my neck and slurps hard.
“Fuck,” I whimper, writhing around.
“Shhh,” he breathes, plunging in again and again.
“I’m yours, Chris. Your faggot.”
Chris cocks an eyebrow.
I grab Chris’s wrist and bring his hand to my lips. I slurp his palm; then I bite down softly on two fingers before gulping them into my mouth.
“Fucker,” Chris groans. As I amplify the pressure, Chris counters by cupping my head for leverage and sucking gingerly on my neck. He wallops me harder, his body clouting mine as he lances deep inside.
My mind fades as my body takes over. The only thought I cling to is the imprisonment of my superfluous dick.
Otherwise, I let go.
“C’mon, pussyboy, show me what you got,” Chris mutters.
My straining ass softens, and Chris emits a little groan.
“Hell, Travis…”
I flex my gluteus maximus, clamping my sheath around his shaft.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Chris says, his voice breaking. “Slow down.”
I taunt him with my ass, savoring the shocks jumping across Chris’s face as my tunnel grapples his cock over and over.
“I said, SLOW DOWN!” he growls. He grips my neck, pinning me tight against the bed, whipping his cock out of my ass in a quick lashing motion. I gasp reflexively at the sudden emptiness.
Chris catches his breath. “What the fuck was that?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. He releases my neck and flashes a half-smile. A cloud moves out from in front of the moon, and a bar of moonlight streams through the window, painting Chris’s sweaty body with silvery light.
I cling to him. Then, after a moment, I nuzzle into his armpit and lap.
“Don’t worry; I’m gonna finish fucking you.” He rolls me onto my stomach and lowers his voice to a whisper. “No more Mr. Nice Guy.”
He palms my ass, spreading it with both hands.
His cockhead prods and prickles me, and then, he slides it all the way back in.
I groan, pushing out.
“Fuck yeah,” Chris says. He pads my ass cheeks and then builds up, packing my ass with thrust after stinging thrust.
He tongues my ear. “I care about you, you know. You aren’t just some gay boy to take things out on. You are a troublemaker…but you are worth the trouble. You are worth fighting for.”
A hint of romance sneaks back. “I care about you, too, Chris.”
I love you.
But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Not after I’d said it to Zane too.
Would they mean anything?
And would he say them back?
Can I fall in love…anymore?
Chris wraps his arms around me, snarling. “Fuck.”
I get the sense the moment has passed. In fact, it may have confused or alienated him, because his compassionate side snuffs out.
He’s a brute.
He paws at my ass and grinds his cock in deep.
“You are my slave pussy tonight,” he says, gripping my neck for leverage.
“Yes master,” I breathe.
His thrusts build up to frenzied hammer strike.
I’m having trouble catching my breath as it is—but then, he reaches under me and grips the base of my forbidden dick.
Sparks.
I whimper, pushing my ass back into him. The moment of mercy is gone. He releases my dick and squeezes my balls, reining me in, pulling my ass high into the air.
I’m still discombobulated, whining, as Chris grabs the back of my head and twists it toward him.
“Shut up,” he says, his eyes glimmering. Then he leans forward—and kisses me.
I moan and whimper into his mouth; he smothers my noises; he tongues me down.
Harder and harder he pounds me—his slave pussy—until my mind is empty and my body is helpless.
He releases me from the kiss, turning my head back and pinning it into the pillow.
“Fuck yeah,” he says. He holds my neck for leverage as he crams his cock into me. “Fuck.”
He hastens; he hardens; he toughens up.
I’m on the edge.
I still—-love him.
He’s making—-my dreams come true.
Except—-one.
And--I’m afraid.
I’m afire—with a deep blaze that reaches the core of me.
Light flashes in front of my eyes; for a moment, it is day time; the sun breaks up clouds at the end of a storm.
My numbness dissipates and I feel his warm, firm cock entrenched inside me, and it feels like heaven. He holds me tight as he delves into me.
I let out a cracking moan; I push my ass up till it claps against his abdominals; and then—I shoot forth, volley after volley of cum, right into Chris’s prim sheets.
My quivering hole braces his shaft, clenching down.
This time, Chris doesn’t pull out.
He whips himself up, crashing down on me over and over, till I wonder if my ass might bruise.
“Fuck yeah,” he growls, pounding me to the point of no return and then some.
Maybe he was still mad about Zane. The way he was crushing me, it seemed like he was either mad about something, or just kind of…losing it.
“Fuck…” he says, chewing my neck. “Fuck…”
The sound of his body clapping against mine reverberates around the room.
“Fuck…fuck…”
“Cum inside me, Chris,” I whisper. “Mark me.”
He covers my mouth, but the damage is done. His eyes flash; he hammers me; I suck his hand; he buries his cock till his balls rest on my skin, and then he collapses on me, his mouth inches from my ear.
“Fuck,” he whispers one last time.
Then, his cum pulses deep inside me, in a stream that never seems to end.
Slowly, my eyes droop and our hearts slow. I sigh, rolling my tongue around Chris’s palm as he holds me tight. We fade into the bath of moonlight, and then into nothing at all.
---
I curl into Chris’s chest and he holds me, running his hand through my hair slowly.
“Was that okay?” he asks.
“It was like a good dream,” I say.
“I wasn’t too hard or too soft?”
I nibble his nipple in ascent.
He flexes, inflating his pectorals and wrapping me up.
I didn’t know exactly what in the world makes a god like Chris anxious, but I want to take the weight off his shoulders. He gets short of breath again—his tight refractory period is otherworldly—and he continues to stroke my hair before gripping it tight. He guides me down his hilly pectorals, through the canals of his sweat-drenched abdominals, and to his shiny, recovering shaft, which curls into the air and catches the moonlight.
“Ready for round two?” he asks.
I roll my tongue around his growing shaft, stealing a glance into his glimmering eyes before he buries my face in his balls.
--
I can’t focus at school the next day. Partly, I’m exhausted from lack of sleep and from a general feeling of being overwhelmed. I’d been deprived time to process everything, and I think I need more than the average person in the first place.
Wrestling practice is much the same. Coach surprises me as I work the weights.
“I see you lost the earring.”
“Yessir,” I say, pumping out another rep.
“Then it’s your lucky day. Damerae is back from his ankle injury, and he wants his spot back.”
Coach’s expression is blank. I sense he is still disappointed with me.
“Today?” I ask.
“Today,” he repeats. He beckons for me to follow him and we make our way across the hall.
---
I try to calm my breathing as Damerae and I hover on opposite sides of the mat. I can’t beat Damerae, can I? I look into his face. Chocolate skin, fuzzy hair—he wore it in longer dreads the rest of the year, but he cut it short during wrestling season, so that it just barely peeked out of his headgear now. Pure eyes, focused and unclouded.
I had yet to have a statement win. I got lucky at the Storm Meet, and my fight with Eduardo I won on a technicality. I needed to prove myself.
Prove you are a faggot, Zane seems to whisper. I look around, but he is nowhere to be seen.
What is wrong with me?
My heartbeat builds up, and the echoes of Zane are replaced by flashes of Chris. I try to get images from the night before out of my mind, but somehow, the thought of him soothes me.
Damerae’s arms entangle with mine, we stand across from one another, locked in place.
I can’t win like this. He’s stronger than me.
Chris said to cultivate talent. What does that mean, exactly? If Damerae is stronger, I can’t win a battle of strength. I have to do something creative—something that has a little finesse.
I grit myself, copying the move I’d seen Zane try against Chris the other day. I suddenly change directions, pulling instead of pushing, swinging both of our bodies to the mat.
We struggle; there is a lot of rolling around and flexing and grunting—but ultimately, it seems—I still cannot pin him down. No matter how I wiggle and worm, he alters tact, making the game about strength again, and overpowering me.
I’m outclassed, aren’t I? Not just in terms of strength, but in terms of skill as well.
I’m inferior.
Maybe my position isn’t meant to last.
In a desperate vie for positioning, my foot grazes his ankle, and Damerae cries out.
If push comes to shove…
I drag my foot against his, flexing out with my last burst of strength, and Damerae taps out.
A wave of guilt rolls over me--I milked his injury to win--but at least I didn’t punch him in the face or grab his balls like Eduardo or Zane might have done. What weak consolation. Damerae always strikes me as a fierce competitor, but he also always plays fair.
I cling to the JV spot—Calvin thumps my back—but the win has a tainted quality.
Damerae nods at me before taking his ankle in his palm, grimacing and rolling it under his thumb.
---
My parents’ voices carry from the other room.
“Why does he have to stay out so dang late?”
“He hasn’t been absent from school,” my dad says. “I don’t think it is drugs either—there’s nothing wrong in his eyes. Maybe we should look on the bright side. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen the inspector.”
We eat dinner. Heck—I even go so far as to describe my day.
I don’t want to risk a good thing. Even if what’s happening with Chris isn’t a purely good thing—it isn’t exactly as I imagined it—it’s nothing if not exciting.
My dad raises an eyebrow when I explain I have to work on the group project with Chris every day of the week, but they don’t fight me on it, which means that after dinner, I voyage through the forest again. Fully clothed.
A warmth courses through me—and for a moment, I don’t feel the croaking frog song echoes my pain. Instead, they are egging me on.
I DID beat Eduardo, I DID beat Damerae, I DID win the Storm Meet for my team.
I don’t have to feel guilty, do I?
I can celebrate a victory with Chris, right?
For the first time in a while I let myself smile, thumbing the shark-tooth necklace. I pause, leaning against a tree and closing my eyes. I suck in the smell and flavor of the forest and feel the world stand still, at least for a moment.
Then, something changes. Shadows fall on me, and I feel a bit cooler. The forest musk gets stronger, more animal, and suddenly, I feel sweaty skin on my lips.
I open my eyelids, wriggling, shocked; slicing green eyes, red-head Mohawk, tips mottled with black dye—Zane. I scream out; but Zane pulls me in by the back of the head, muffling my voice in his sweaty armpit.
“Shut up,” he says, his eyes sparkling--and I fall quiet.
I push him backwards; he pushes me in retaliation, and I slam into the tree.
“How many times am I going to catch you with your eyes closed?” Zane asks, smirking.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Zane yawns. “Not now, cunt-face.”
“Chris won fair and square. It’s over.”
Zane curls his lip. “Faggot pussy position.”
“Zane—“ I whimper.
“Don’t make me say it twice.”
“Zane—“
Zane lands a blow to my stomach. I can tell he held back, yet still, it makes me double over. He pushes me down to my knees.
“Faggot pussy position,” he says again calmly.
I sink forward, putting weight on my hands, feeling the leaves crumple beneath me; then I lie flat on my stomach, arching my ass into the air.
“Let out that ass.”
I bite my lip.
“NOW!”
I unbutton and unzip, rolling down my jeans and boxers, exposing my ass to the forest air.
Zane sinks down behind me, reaching under and groping my dick through my jeans. “You have a boner, faggot.”
“Zane,” I whisper. “No…”
“Don’t worry, punk.” He slides something thin and smooth between my ass cheeks, making a little wall there, as though out of cardboard. “Do me a favor and deliver this to Chris,” he says. “Don’t take it out before you get to him. It’s for his eyes only.”
“Okay,” I croak.
Leaving my boxers pushed down, Zane pulls up my jeans, zipping and buttoning them, the item still tucked safely between my ass cheeks. Then, he kisses the hill of my ass through the fabric and pushes my face into the leafy dirt, getting clumps of grime stuck to my face. “Gotta go faggot. Sorry I couldn’t fuck you.”
Afraid to move, I lie there, clenching my eyes until I am sure he is gone.
I walk delicately the rest of the way to Chris’s house, wondering if I’d let my guard down too much. It was as though every time things threatened to sort out, I got a reminder of my naiveté.
“Are you okay?” Chris asks.
“Just saw Zane,” I murmur.
Chris’s expression darkens; then, he catches me off guard by pecking me on the cheek. I blush all over and follow him down the stairs. He collapses back on the couch, spreading his legs wide and tucking an arm behind his head. “What happened?”
I bite my lip, swiveling and unbuttoning my jeans. I slide them down.
“What is that?” Chris asks.
“Zane put it there,” I say.
“Did he—“
“No, all he did was shove that up there.”
“Good,” Chris says, massaging my ass.
I lean forward, clutching my knees. Then, Chris reaches in and grabs it, making me cringe at the funny smearing sensation dragging along my skin.
I turn back. It’s an envelope, with a bit of brown crust.
I blush deeper.
“Did you read this already?” he asks.
“Zane said it was for your eyes only.”
“Good,” Chris says, running his hand through my hair. He tugs on my necklace, pulling me down to my knees.
He tows me to his crotch, where I brush my lips against the outline of his cock slowly.
He bides his time looking over the message, stroking my hair as I lose myself, nibbling and sniffing the bulge in his jeans.
Suddenly, Chris crumples up the note and tosses it behind the couch.
“What’s it say?” I whisper.
Chris unzips his jeans, thrusting slightly into the air so he can pull them down, along with his silk boxers. His balls flop out and his cock swings up, jabbing me in the face.
“He wants a rematch. Zane feels I had home court advantage. The agreement was only for a week, after all.”
“Who cares?” I say, smacking my lips against his balls. “You don’t need to win me in some game.”
“He’s raising the stakes. Loser gets their picture taken kissing the winner’s feet.”
“Can’t you just have me kiss your feet?”
I slide down Chris’s jean leg, but he pulls me back up, the silver chain digging into my neck.
“I’m doing this,” Chris says.
“Why? You don’t have to prove anything.”
“This conversation is over,” Chris says. He guides his cock through the ring my lips form. He grips my head with both hands, keeping me from wriggling away impulsively when I gag. He slams my head down, then fucks my throat hard.
His voice is low and dangerous. “This needs to happen. Let it happen.”
The contractions in my throat slow.
“Motherfucker,” Chris says, his body clapping against my face. Chris clenches my hair, growling as he thrusts in again and again. “People need to learn their lessons.”
I close my eyes as he builds up, his hard cock inflating my cheeks on its circuitous way down.
He pulls my hair till it hurts. “You can do it, bitch. You can take it without gagging.”
It had been a while since he had slung that pejorative my way. I was too far gone to fight it, too far out of sorts to even know if I wanted to.
MNMPWAH.
“That’s it, Travis,” Chris says, talking over my slurping noises.
I can sense that he is close.
I’m getting to know him in new ways.
I tighten my lips and draw in, worming my tongue around his cock.
Nails grating my hair. Deep grunting. Veins jumping.
“Fuck yeah, cocksucker,” he mutters.
He inhales, his pectorals protruding above me, blanketing me in shadow. He stomps one leg after the other.
“Let it happen,” he breathes.
I moan, stacking pressure, absorbing blow after blow to the face.
“Fuck…FUCK. FUCK!”
The underwater sensation blossoms as Chris grips my ears, disorienting me.
I steal a glance at his face, my eyes glazed over.
He smiles down at me, his gold eyes glittering, as he flexes out.
He grunts, his cock jumping. For a moment, I can’t breathe, even out of my nose. I thrash as he grips the necklace tight, his smile gone.
He holds my head down as his hearth jumps in anticipation of its next creation.
Suddenly, it’s as though I'm kissing a whirligig in a storm.
He strokes my cheek with one hand, holding me in place with the other. Calm floods through me, and my struggling deteriorates. I gulp, then gulp again and again till it’s done.
The glint of his half-smile catches my eyes, and he sighs faintly. I nuzzle into his thighs, lapping the lingering sweat from his balls.
He cradles my head as my mind melts away.
---
Feedback always appreciated:
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---
Taste of Power, Part 14
Part XIV
Chris smirks, twisting the chain again, and I emit a gargling noise. Then he tugs sideways, pulling me off the couch and onto my knees.
He raises his eyebrows, his eyes shining. “Go ahead and fight back.”
I can’t focus with my airflow restricted like this. I drop soft punches, but he flexes out and shrugs them off. He tugs on the necklace, slapping my cheeks against his quadriceps; then he drags my face down his leg.
“Kiss my feet,” Chris growls. “I know you like that.”
I can’t really suck when I am choked like this, so I drag my lips and tongue around the crown of his foot, hoping that will do.
Things get kind of hazy, and I collapse forward.
Chris drops the necklace, the shark tooth clinking on the cement.
I gasp—opening my eyes wide and gazing up at him. I cough and clench my side and sputter for air.
Then, I curl up on the floor in the fetal position, my eyes closed.
“Travis?”
“It’s nothing,” I croak. I try to catch my breath. “So much has happened so fast,” I whisper.
It is quiet for a time. Then he nods.
“What do you suppose you want?” Chris asks, padding my chest with the balls of his feet.
“Can we just lie down together? I want to lie in your arms—and just—dream.”
“Okay,” Chris says.
“Okay?” I repeat. “That’s fine? Just lying around?”
Chris shrugs. “You’ve had a rough week.”
He picks up the shark tooth and tugs up, ushering me to my feet. I give him a look, but he laughs it off.
Chris dons his clothes and I follow suit. I track his steps up the rickety stairs out of the cellar. When we reach the prickly cold night air, I half expect to get mauled by a wild animal, like a tiger, or perhaps Zane, but instead there is a droning softness.
At first it is just the crickets and frogs. Then, the swirling shadow in front of the street light streaks to life with a monotone buzz.
Cicadas.
They hardly ever sing at night, but the moon is bright in the sky, and perhaps they are confused…
There’s a spiral staircase on the side of the house, which leads to a raised balcony outside of Chris’s room.
“Will your parents care that I am over?” I ask.
The cicadas grow louder.
“Only if they find out,” Chris says. “They are on the other end of the house. Our family is less warm than you might think. We keep to ourselves after dinner—and they usually eat out. It was a bit more lifelike before my sister Cathy went off to college.”
“You want me here every night this week?”
“Sounds good.” Chris says.
“But—to spend the night? My parents don’t like me out on school nights.”
“Well, you aren’t a little kid anymore, are you? It’s not so strange to stay out late with friends these days. They should be happy you aren’t being a hermit anymore.”
I roll my eyes, and Chris tugs on my necklace again.
Chris keys into his room and brushes his lips with his finger.
Chris points out the extra gear in his medicine cabinet for me to brush my teeth and floss. Then he paces around the room in what appears to be his nightly ritual, setting the alarm, messing with his bed, and eventually, hitting the lights. I grope through the darkness, watching Chris shrug off his clothes. The moonlight flecks his muscles and the curves of his shoulders with little coronas of light.
I feel clumsy as I undress and crawl onto the bed.
Chris collapses next to me, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me into him. I soften, basking in his warmth—his aura.
I can’t think or feel clearly.
I let the images find my eyelids again.
If I can’t work it out while I am awake, I will have to work it out in my dreams.
---
What makes an idol false?
And what makes an idol true?
You can’t always decide
What choice is up to you?
---
I wake up in hot sweat. It’s still dark outside—but the moon is bright.
It takes me a minute to remember where I am. Not in my bed, not at the hotel, not at Zane’s.
Chris’s arm drapes around me. I feel the little soft brown hairs with my palm. I roll over.
God he smells good. I want to lick the sweat off his body. Those big curved muscles rise and fall as he breathes and I want to sink into them. The wrinkles are gone from his face. His upper and lower eyelashes interweave. His mouth curls closed and dimples crest like sliver moons at the edges of his cheeks. His wet lips glimmer in the starlight.
I lean in and suck them softly.
I hear Chris exhale from his nose and I open my eyes. Chris’s eyes are blurry—shadowy gold, with a tiny reflection of the moon flecking deep within each of them. His hands find the back of my head and pull me into him. His lips are on mine now; his motions are dynamic and vigorous. I get the sense he can feel the desire etched in my skin, but shelves most of it. He pushes my lips open with his tongue and then works through to me. It feels like sunlight cutting through clouds.
I hum into his lips.
Chris is kissing me.
Oh my fucking god, Chris is kissing me!
He stops and pulls away.
“So,” he says, feeling up my hard-on, “did you wake me up to talk about the meaning of life?”
My heart is racing.
I sigh. “Chris—I—I dunno. I think you know I’m deeply—I really—“ I was glad he couldn’t see my face. “Chris—it’s hard for me. I feel so FRAGILE around you. I’m not trying to be emotional. I want to feel that I’m making good choices. I feel like I have been on this roller coaster with Zane, and now I’m so—frazzled. Spending a bit of time with Calvin here and there calms me down some—but it’s a bit like pee-wee golf in comparison.”
I stare up at the ceiling, hoping I make a shred of sense, and Chris waits a second before filling the silence.
“Sounds like Zane is too intense, and Calvin is not intense enough. Maybe you are like Goldilocks and you like how I am the lukewarm, more versatile option.”
“Please,” I say.
“No really,” he murmurs back.
“You are beyond self-assured,” I say, trying to remember to keep my voice down to a whisper. “It’s not that you might ever make mistakes, or that you are inconsistent—or just plain fake. No; it’s all part of finding that ‘just right’ balance.”
“Do I detect a note of sarcasm?” Chris asks, chuckling. But something I said struck a nerve. I can feel his heartbeat hasten. “Everyone is self-assured, in their own way. Someone who says everything that pops into their head insist that they do a great job of standing up for themselves. Someone who never says anything thinks that they aren’t wasting people’s time with pointless debate. And someone who is in-between muses that whatever balance they’ve found happens to be, quite naturally, the right one. I suppose—I would acknowledge--I think self-righteousness can be a kind of mask for jealousy.”
He inhales and churns onward.
“People who are too outspoken wish they weren’t so irritable and unlikeable. People who are too quiet wish that others would solicit and incorporate their opinions. And people in-between wish they weren’t cursed with complications and the imperfections that descend from them.”
“Yes. I’m sure yours is a very cursed life.”
“Well—it’s true—it isn’t bad like Zane’s. But you see--Zane believes vehemently that his hardship has strengthened him. That it has entitled him to greatness. Do you really think Zane doesn’t wish he had a family that loved him? Or wealth? Or a cleaner slate? I’m just saying—that sad story doesn’t merit a WIN. You know how in the Olympics on TV, they’ll show that five minute back-story for Michelle Kwan or whoever, showing how hard her life was, before she skates… then she falls flat on the ice—SMACK—and loses. That’s why the Olympics are better than the movies. If there is a secret to winning, it has nothing to do with having a stirring back-story. Save that shit for the college applications. If there is a secret to winning, it has to do with cultivating talent, getting a bit lucky, and if push comes to shove, cheating.”
I snort at the last part. “Are saying—you are jealous of Zane in some ways?”
“That does seem to follow.” Finally, the glint is back in Chris’s golden eyes.
“In what way?”
“Can you think of nothing?” Chris says, running a pair of fingers down my neck. He leans in and whispers into my ear, “I’m sure you know that people have been talking about your haircut, your earring, and your necklace. But maybe you didn’t know that people have been talking about the red bite marks on your neck.”
Chris exhales slowly onto my neck. Warm moisture lingers from his breath.
“So—“ I say, closing my eyes, “How the hell do you decide when to stand up for yourself, then?”
“I think you can tell that as I try to find a balance—I am a tad—conflicted.” He draws away from me, thumbing his cheek. “It has to be that way, though. No school of thought can make sense of everything. Think a philosophy through long enough, and you will find it can’t solve everything. You will even find that it seems to contradict itself. You can’t judge the virtues of a philosophy merely on how much it solves for you. You need to look at how cordially it accepts its own shortcomings.”
I click my tongue. “I have yet to meet someone who cordially accepts their own shortcomings. It seems to be an unspoken rule that apologies are—ironically—for people without status, like little kids, who only do so when bossed into it. People view remorse as a call to an argument, or sometimes, an invitation to get punched in the face. With all that’s happened, and with all of the lofty rationales I’ve heard, neither you nor Zane seems willing to spare an inch of status for any reason at all.”
Chris laughs, more openly than usual. “Zane has made me out to be some kind of privileged, unworthy villain, like Voldemort or Mitt Romney—which I’m not. I’m not a villain at all. Heaven knows Zane has paid prices to be the way he is. But life isn’t just a competition for the best bragging rights in sob-stories. And perhaps the prices I’ve paid haven’t been so steep, but it would be nice to know that people thought they counted for something. Or at least acknowledged they existed.”
I snort. “What prices have you paid, Chris, really? It seems like you have everything.”
“But I really don’t. My life is like a game of football where the refs extend the end-zone by ten yards every time I almost reach it, and each time they hire another monkey to pull me backwards in order to prevent me from getting there.”
“I guess bad things happen to everyone,” I say, shrugging lifelessly.
Chris wrinkles his mouth. He starts to rub my back, which catches me off guard. I close my eyes, trying to roll with it. Chris sucks on his tongue. “Even if I win day in and day out, it just becomes mundane. Victors are supposed to be humble and remind everyone they aren’t so special. People who lose aren’t allowed to be hopeless either. That’s why the Calvins of the world seek you out and give you a push, even if you didn’t ask for it.”
“So Calvin is a conscripted culture monkey.”
Chris’s eyes flicker, but he opts to tread on.
“The worst is anxiety. You know I’m not supposed to have any. People expect apprehension to be beneath someone like me. Since everything seems to be going my way, people would find it odd if I said much of anything sad or mad or opinionated. I couldn’t have a political outburst like you did—yes, I’ve heard about that too. From you, it’s a reflection of whatever internal storm is brewing. People take one look at me and assume I’m powerful, but clement. They temper their expectations and empathy accordingly.”
“So you are trapped and frustrated. You need society’s approval, because you don’t want to be a crazy person, but you also need to go your own way, because you want to be yourself.”
“Yeah.”
“And you see a chance to take it out on the gay kid who is in love with you by treating him like shit. You figure that it might be something that society will let you get away with. Is that what you mean by being yourself? That’s your justification?”
“Is this about me squeezing the necklace before? We were just goofing around—“
“No, I’m already over that,” I say, pausing to remember to keep my voice down. “This is about calling me names and taking my things and making me do stuff. It’s not so bad when we’re alone together, but when I’m alone without you…” I bite my bottom lip and turn away slightly. I can’t get the stinging sensation out of the corner of my eyes, or the lump out of the back of my throat.
“Travis—look at me. Travis!” He grips the back of my head and tilts it up at him. “Travis—I’m sorry. Ok? I’m sorry. I didn’t want anyone to find out about us, and that’s why I kept you an arm’s length away. I’m sure now that I shoved too far. I was so angry… Do you think it didn’t eat me up inside? Knowing that I drove you into Zane’s arms? That he was sculpting you—into something else? He tried to make it seem like you two have so much in common, two downtrodden individuals one violent fuck away from the cure, but you know that it’s me that you should be with. It’s always been me—hasn’t it?”
I try to look him in the eye briefly. “Maybe I’ve just been acting stupid. Maybe you have a girlfriend anyway, and I should just get over you. I just don’t UNDERSTAND. Why can’t I get over you? I feel like I’ve done everything I could to move on. But you are always cropping up in my mind…” I bury my face into his chest, hoping he can’t sense the new moisture blending with his sweat.
“I don’t want you to get over me, Travis. Not anymore. I’m trying to spell it out for you. I’m jealous of Zane—because of what he had with you. I just know that we could do it BETTER.” Chris leans in and nibbles on my neck. He breathes on me again, slowly moving up till he is blowing in my ear. “I want to fuck you, Travis. Not like last time. Not like leftovers. Not an afterthought. I want to fuck you so good that you can never get over me, not tomorrow, not next week, not ever, because the guy from your dreams made them real and there is no beating that.”
“Chris…” I whimper.
Chris’s warm lips brush against mine, making them spark. “I can be nice,” he says, rubbing my shoulders.
I try to slow my breathing—my heartbeat.
“And I can be mean too.”
I feel the sting of his palm against my ass and my jaw drops in shock. Before I can even close my mouth, he pulls my face into his armpit.
Chris’s wet lips find my ear and envelope it. He exhales. “I’m not a philosopher. So you’ll just have to tell me if it feels just right.”
I moan into his pit.
“C’mon Travis, drag your tongue against it,” he whispers. My tongue falls out of my mouth and I strain it against his armpit over and over, his little hairs prickling me. The smell ensnares me. My dick grows harder and my body grows softer.
I draw the sweat from his pit and into my mouth over and over.
“Swallow it, boy,” Chris says.
I drink his pit sweat down. It’s richer than Zane’s—less salty, but more flavorful. I’m lost in Chris now—there is no escape. I crave him. I abandon my pride and whine weakly, drinking from his pit like a starving animal.
Chris chuckles. His laugh is so much warmer than Zane’s. There are times when Chris can be brutal and charming at the same time, because he is so playful and tantalizing—you just get captured in him. Zane, well, he is a whole other animal. Zane is at his best when he sees things not just as what they seem to be, but what they are when you look at them funny—what they could be, if the world twisted a little more. And somehow—he can be likeable in his own way too.
Chris and Zane are at their best when I am close to them—when I know them—when they know me.
“What do you think about when you swirl your tongue around like that?” Chris whispers.
I shiver.
“I want to make you happy,” I say. My lips trace over his pit hairs as I speak. “I want to be your paintbrush—coating the sky with stars.”
I lick him again, then sweep my lips against his hot, wet skin.
Chris chuckles, his lips finding my ear. “Don’t leave your masterpiece half painted, then.”
He pulls me out by my hair and shoves me into his other pit.
The totality of his musk entraps me. The victory sweat, born out of the tribulations of taking down Zane and Calvin in succession. I whimper and lap and suck. Chris rubs me around in his pit until every inch of my face is covered in it. The pressure on my head varies as Chris clenches his fist and softens his grip around my hair. Eventually he pulls me back, and I whine, slurping at air.
“You can just call me master for short,” Chris says.
Chris won me over, didn’t he?
The reality is setting in.
I am his slave. And he is…
“Yes--master,” I whimper. I stick my tongue out and catch one last bead of sweat.
My exhaling becomes louder and rises in pitch.
Chris smirks.
“Tell me what you want,” he says.
“I want your cock,” I whisper. I lean in and suck on his neck. I drop kisses on his rounded pectorals as I move down. “Please, Chris. I want you to make me your bitch.”
His fingers tangle in my hair as I move further down.
“Please, Chris.”
Chris growls and tightens his grip on me. My lips graze his abdominals, which ripple with waves of light and darkness under my soft touch.
I can see the outline of his cock in his white silk boxers, and it looks downright vulgar stretching the fabric so far. A bead of moisture pools, outlining the head.
I slowly pull the waistband of his boxers away from his body. His cock flips out and a fleck of precum hops onto my lip. I lick it off. I tuck the waistband under his balls—which makes them balance, compressed one way and stretched another. Snug—tense. I move toward his balls, and Chris tightens his grip on my hair.
“Please, Chris. Please let me suck you. Please—let me make you happy. Please—master.”
Chris squeezes my head with one hand and jacks his cock with the other. I shiver in spite of myself.
“What are you nervous about?” Chris asks.
“I want to be with you,” I whisper. “But I’m afraid I want a dream of you—a vision of you—that isn’t available in the real world.”
The head of Chris’s big cock snags on my lips. We let it rest there and I look up into his big gold eyes.
Chris smirks. “Maybe you just need to spend less time in your thoughts and more time in the physical world. I’m all kinds of real, Travis.”
I kiss his cock softly—once, twice, three times.
Then, it slides naturally down my throat.
“Fuck,” Chris says, his voice breaking. “The way your tongue flips—maybe Zane was right to nickname you ‘coin’.”
I take him till his balls envelop my chin and his abdominals veil my face.
I feel Chris’s hand pulling me off by my hair. He rips me off his cock and I feel a tear streaking down my cheek. “Chris,” I whimper, looking down. “Please don’t use Zane’s nickname for me.”
“You tired of getting tossed around? Want something a bit more stable?” Chris points my head up toward him again.
Every fiber of who I am shakes at the sight of him. I feel weak. I clear my throat.
“I want you inside me, Chris. I want to look into your eyes while you are inside me.”
“Ride me,” Chris says.
I swallow.
I get off the bed for a moment, pulling my underwear off. Chris’s white silk boxers hit me in the face and I roll my eyes, brushing them away.
“Is this going to be too dry?” Chris asks.
He flips his big cock against his stomach. I take a moment to appreciate how beautiful he is. Defined, curved muscles stretch from his legs to his abs to his pecs; his biceps flex, shimmering in the starlight; the landscape of his hair, rolling from streaky to fuzzy along its hill of growth; his cocky, shadowed, golden-brown eyes; his convoluted smile; the shadow of a dimple forming on both sides…
“Zane likes to rim me,” I say softly. Chris’s eyes bug out and I laugh, stumbling back into the bed.
Chris pulls me into him and shoves two fingers in my mouth.
“I’m not going to do that, Travis,” he says.
I nod around his fingers.
“This is the closest I get.”
He pulls his fingers out of my mouth and drags them along my ass crack. I gasp. Chris rotates, shoving two fingers from his free hand into my open mouth, muffling me as he starts to finger my hole. My asshole absorbs the moisture from one hand while my mouth dampens the other.
Eventually, he exchanges his hands.
The fingers on my ass are wet again, but this time, they do not linger very long.
Chris shoves them inside.
I squeal around Chris’s other fingers, tasting traces of my ass, and he laughs.
I snarl, crawling forward on top of him on my hands and knees. I lean back till his fingers are wrenched from my holes and my ass grazes his skin. Chris’s cockhead gets wrapped up in my ballsack, stretching it out and stabbing me in vulnerable places. I fish it out, repositioning it at my crack, squeezing it at the base.
He lifts an eyebrow.
“I know you don’t like my hands,” I say, pouting, “but it’s just for a second.”
I lean back. I feel his big cock stretching against my ass cheeks. The pressure is building. His cock is running out of space to squirm out. It lingers at the cusp, my stubborn ass denying him entrance for now.
Chris looks up at me and I look into his eyes, biting my lip. He grips my shoulders—smirking—and he pushes me down.
I gasp as his cock opens my hole. The first few inches burrow inside.
“God Chris,” I whimper. My mouth falls half-open; my eyes close; I wrench my face to the side. My body is shaking again.
“C’mon Travis. Paint us that dream in the stars.”
I nod—failing to close my mouth. I palm my ass-cheeks with each of my hands, spreading them apart. I sink further down Chris’s big cock, stifling a shriek. I feel Chris’s hand cover my mouth and I suck on it hard. He slides his hand across my face and I kiss it over and over; sucking on his palm, the skin above the bones at the edge, and the wrinkles that ring the column of each finger. The tips lodge past my mouth and dig deeper. He slides his fingers over my tongue and towards my throat. I wrap my lips around them, sucking and moaning. I feel the familiar grip of his left hand on my hair.
He looks me dead in the eyes. With one hand inside me, and the other above me, he has complete leverage over me. His biceps flex and he forces me down. His fingers muffle my squeal as his cock impales me further. I reach down and wrap my hand around the base of his manhood. I still have several more inches to take and I am not sure that I can.
I knead my ass with my hands, coercing it to unclench—to temper. Chris tightens his grip on my head, and I feel my body relaxing. My hole opens and gravity pulls me balls-deep down around Chris’s pipe. I whimper as my body softens. Then, my dick flips up and hits my stomach.
I suddenly remember the dream I was having back when I bolted awake.
I was back at the carousel—except this time I was the horse.
I grab my dick and jack it fiercely.
I try to shake the dream away. I focus on moving up and down on the huge pole inside me. It stretches me wide—I whine—it traces the spot in my ass that makes my eyes spark—this time, it is not my ass, but my rock-hard dick that hurts—white flashes before my eyes—and my dream lingers over me.
I was the metal horse. The world looked red through my eyes. I had a golden, metal pole that skewered me—that moved me from the inside—up and down, round and round—
Chris snarls, dragging his fingers out of my mouth so he can knock my hand away from my dick. I’m not sure why, but I decide to wait a minute at least before jacking myself again.
He rubs my shoulders; forging circles there.
I move up and down on his cock, over and over, letting him fill me, making him stretch me, coercing the light to flash in front of my eyes until my dream blends with my vision again.
“Chris,” I whimper.
“Take it, bitch,” Chris snarls. “I know you can take it.”
I start to ride him faster, slamming my ass balls-deep against him. He lies there, smiling and flexing. He can’t adjust his arms to match my furious movements, so he tucks them behind his head instead. The hair in his armpits glints and I swallow.
I am doing all the work—sweat is pouring off of me—as I give Chris all that I know how.
Some of his hair has matted down and staggers over his forehead--beset by dewdrops of sweat. I reach down and brush it out of his eyes.
I look down at Chris. Shadowed amber and gold eyes stare back.
Suddenly, I roll us over. Chris’s cock slips out in the commotion. He is on top of me now. I hold my legs up, flashing him my hole.
“Pound me, Chris.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
---
Feedback always appreciated. Messages keep me in the mood to write and edit and brainstorm. Always grateful for kind words and constructive ideas.
email: krazytop@gmail.com
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---
Chris smirks, twisting the chain again, and I emit a gargling noise. Then he tugs sideways, pulling me off the couch and onto my knees.
He raises his eyebrows, his eyes shining. “Go ahead and fight back.”
I can’t focus with my airflow restricted like this. I drop soft punches, but he flexes out and shrugs them off. He tugs on the necklace, slapping my cheeks against his quadriceps; then he drags my face down his leg.
“Kiss my feet,” Chris growls. “I know you like that.”
I can’t really suck when I am choked like this, so I drag my lips and tongue around the crown of his foot, hoping that will do.
Things get kind of hazy, and I collapse forward.
Chris drops the necklace, the shark tooth clinking on the cement.
I gasp—opening my eyes wide and gazing up at him. I cough and clench my side and sputter for air.
Then, I curl up on the floor in the fetal position, my eyes closed.
“Travis?”
“It’s nothing,” I croak. I try to catch my breath. “So much has happened so fast,” I whisper.
It is quiet for a time. Then he nods.
“What do you suppose you want?” Chris asks, padding my chest with the balls of his feet.
“Can we just lie down together? I want to lie in your arms—and just—dream.”
“Okay,” Chris says.
“Okay?” I repeat. “That’s fine? Just lying around?”
Chris shrugs. “You’ve had a rough week.”
He picks up the shark tooth and tugs up, ushering me to my feet. I give him a look, but he laughs it off.
Chris dons his clothes and I follow suit. I track his steps up the rickety stairs out of the cellar. When we reach the prickly cold night air, I half expect to get mauled by a wild animal, like a tiger, or perhaps Zane, but instead there is a droning softness.
At first it is just the crickets and frogs. Then, the swirling shadow in front of the street light streaks to life with a monotone buzz.
Cicadas.
They hardly ever sing at night, but the moon is bright in the sky, and perhaps they are confused…
There’s a spiral staircase on the side of the house, which leads to a raised balcony outside of Chris’s room.
“Will your parents care that I am over?” I ask.
The cicadas grow louder.
“Only if they find out,” Chris says. “They are on the other end of the house. Our family is less warm than you might think. We keep to ourselves after dinner—and they usually eat out. It was a bit more lifelike before my sister Cathy went off to college.”
“You want me here every night this week?”
“Sounds good.” Chris says.
“But—to spend the night? My parents don’t like me out on school nights.”
“Well, you aren’t a little kid anymore, are you? It’s not so strange to stay out late with friends these days. They should be happy you aren’t being a hermit anymore.”
I roll my eyes, and Chris tugs on my necklace again.
Chris keys into his room and brushes his lips with his finger.
Chris points out the extra gear in his medicine cabinet for me to brush my teeth and floss. Then he paces around the room in what appears to be his nightly ritual, setting the alarm, messing with his bed, and eventually, hitting the lights. I grope through the darkness, watching Chris shrug off his clothes. The moonlight flecks his muscles and the curves of his shoulders with little coronas of light.
I feel clumsy as I undress and crawl onto the bed.
Chris collapses next to me, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me into him. I soften, basking in his warmth—his aura.
I can’t think or feel clearly.
I let the images find my eyelids again.
If I can’t work it out while I am awake, I will have to work it out in my dreams.
---
What makes an idol false?
And what makes an idol true?
You can’t always decide
What choice is up to you?
---
I wake up in hot sweat. It’s still dark outside—but the moon is bright.
It takes me a minute to remember where I am. Not in my bed, not at the hotel, not at Zane’s.
Chris’s arm drapes around me. I feel the little soft brown hairs with my palm. I roll over.
God he smells good. I want to lick the sweat off his body. Those big curved muscles rise and fall as he breathes and I want to sink into them. The wrinkles are gone from his face. His upper and lower eyelashes interweave. His mouth curls closed and dimples crest like sliver moons at the edges of his cheeks. His wet lips glimmer in the starlight.
I lean in and suck them softly.
I hear Chris exhale from his nose and I open my eyes. Chris’s eyes are blurry—shadowy gold, with a tiny reflection of the moon flecking deep within each of them. His hands find the back of my head and pull me into him. His lips are on mine now; his motions are dynamic and vigorous. I get the sense he can feel the desire etched in my skin, but shelves most of it. He pushes my lips open with his tongue and then works through to me. It feels like sunlight cutting through clouds.
I hum into his lips.
Chris is kissing me.
Oh my fucking god, Chris is kissing me!
He stops and pulls away.
“So,” he says, feeling up my hard-on, “did you wake me up to talk about the meaning of life?”
My heart is racing.
I sigh. “Chris—I—I dunno. I think you know I’m deeply—I really—“ I was glad he couldn’t see my face. “Chris—it’s hard for me. I feel so FRAGILE around you. I’m not trying to be emotional. I want to feel that I’m making good choices. I feel like I have been on this roller coaster with Zane, and now I’m so—frazzled. Spending a bit of time with Calvin here and there calms me down some—but it’s a bit like pee-wee golf in comparison.”
I stare up at the ceiling, hoping I make a shred of sense, and Chris waits a second before filling the silence.
“Sounds like Zane is too intense, and Calvin is not intense enough. Maybe you are like Goldilocks and you like how I am the lukewarm, more versatile option.”
“Please,” I say.
“No really,” he murmurs back.
“You are beyond self-assured,” I say, trying to remember to keep my voice down to a whisper. “It’s not that you might ever make mistakes, or that you are inconsistent—or just plain fake. No; it’s all part of finding that ‘just right’ balance.”
“Do I detect a note of sarcasm?” Chris asks, chuckling. But something I said struck a nerve. I can feel his heartbeat hasten. “Everyone is self-assured, in their own way. Someone who says everything that pops into their head insist that they do a great job of standing up for themselves. Someone who never says anything thinks that they aren’t wasting people’s time with pointless debate. And someone who is in-between muses that whatever balance they’ve found happens to be, quite naturally, the right one. I suppose—I would acknowledge--I think self-righteousness can be a kind of mask for jealousy.”
He inhales and churns onward.
“People who are too outspoken wish they weren’t so irritable and unlikeable. People who are too quiet wish that others would solicit and incorporate their opinions. And people in-between wish they weren’t cursed with complications and the imperfections that descend from them.”
“Yes. I’m sure yours is a very cursed life.”
“Well—it’s true—it isn’t bad like Zane’s. But you see--Zane believes vehemently that his hardship has strengthened him. That it has entitled him to greatness. Do you really think Zane doesn’t wish he had a family that loved him? Or wealth? Or a cleaner slate? I’m just saying—that sad story doesn’t merit a WIN. You know how in the Olympics on TV, they’ll show that five minute back-story for Michelle Kwan or whoever, showing how hard her life was, before she skates… then she falls flat on the ice—SMACK—and loses. That’s why the Olympics are better than the movies. If there is a secret to winning, it has nothing to do with having a stirring back-story. Save that shit for the college applications. If there is a secret to winning, it has to do with cultivating talent, getting a bit lucky, and if push comes to shove, cheating.”
I snort at the last part. “Are saying—you are jealous of Zane in some ways?”
“That does seem to follow.” Finally, the glint is back in Chris’s golden eyes.
“In what way?”
“Can you think of nothing?” Chris says, running a pair of fingers down my neck. He leans in and whispers into my ear, “I’m sure you know that people have been talking about your haircut, your earring, and your necklace. But maybe you didn’t know that people have been talking about the red bite marks on your neck.”
Chris exhales slowly onto my neck. Warm moisture lingers from his breath.
“So—“ I say, closing my eyes, “How the hell do you decide when to stand up for yourself, then?”
“I think you can tell that as I try to find a balance—I am a tad—conflicted.” He draws away from me, thumbing his cheek. “It has to be that way, though. No school of thought can make sense of everything. Think a philosophy through long enough, and you will find it can’t solve everything. You will even find that it seems to contradict itself. You can’t judge the virtues of a philosophy merely on how much it solves for you. You need to look at how cordially it accepts its own shortcomings.”
I click my tongue. “I have yet to meet someone who cordially accepts their own shortcomings. It seems to be an unspoken rule that apologies are—ironically—for people without status, like little kids, who only do so when bossed into it. People view remorse as a call to an argument, or sometimes, an invitation to get punched in the face. With all that’s happened, and with all of the lofty rationales I’ve heard, neither you nor Zane seems willing to spare an inch of status for any reason at all.”
Chris laughs, more openly than usual. “Zane has made me out to be some kind of privileged, unworthy villain, like Voldemort or Mitt Romney—which I’m not. I’m not a villain at all. Heaven knows Zane has paid prices to be the way he is. But life isn’t just a competition for the best bragging rights in sob-stories. And perhaps the prices I’ve paid haven’t been so steep, but it would be nice to know that people thought they counted for something. Or at least acknowledged they existed.”
I snort. “What prices have you paid, Chris, really? It seems like you have everything.”
“But I really don’t. My life is like a game of football where the refs extend the end-zone by ten yards every time I almost reach it, and each time they hire another monkey to pull me backwards in order to prevent me from getting there.”
“I guess bad things happen to everyone,” I say, shrugging lifelessly.
Chris wrinkles his mouth. He starts to rub my back, which catches me off guard. I close my eyes, trying to roll with it. Chris sucks on his tongue. “Even if I win day in and day out, it just becomes mundane. Victors are supposed to be humble and remind everyone they aren’t so special. People who lose aren’t allowed to be hopeless either. That’s why the Calvins of the world seek you out and give you a push, even if you didn’t ask for it.”
“So Calvin is a conscripted culture monkey.”
Chris’s eyes flicker, but he opts to tread on.
“The worst is anxiety. You know I’m not supposed to have any. People expect apprehension to be beneath someone like me. Since everything seems to be going my way, people would find it odd if I said much of anything sad or mad or opinionated. I couldn’t have a political outburst like you did—yes, I’ve heard about that too. From you, it’s a reflection of whatever internal storm is brewing. People take one look at me and assume I’m powerful, but clement. They temper their expectations and empathy accordingly.”
“So you are trapped and frustrated. You need society’s approval, because you don’t want to be a crazy person, but you also need to go your own way, because you want to be yourself.”
“Yeah.”
“And you see a chance to take it out on the gay kid who is in love with you by treating him like shit. You figure that it might be something that society will let you get away with. Is that what you mean by being yourself? That’s your justification?”
“Is this about me squeezing the necklace before? We were just goofing around—“
“No, I’m already over that,” I say, pausing to remember to keep my voice down. “This is about calling me names and taking my things and making me do stuff. It’s not so bad when we’re alone together, but when I’m alone without you…” I bite my bottom lip and turn away slightly. I can’t get the stinging sensation out of the corner of my eyes, or the lump out of the back of my throat.
“Travis—look at me. Travis!” He grips the back of my head and tilts it up at him. “Travis—I’m sorry. Ok? I’m sorry. I didn’t want anyone to find out about us, and that’s why I kept you an arm’s length away. I’m sure now that I shoved too far. I was so angry… Do you think it didn’t eat me up inside? Knowing that I drove you into Zane’s arms? That he was sculpting you—into something else? He tried to make it seem like you two have so much in common, two downtrodden individuals one violent fuck away from the cure, but you know that it’s me that you should be with. It’s always been me—hasn’t it?”
I try to look him in the eye briefly. “Maybe I’ve just been acting stupid. Maybe you have a girlfriend anyway, and I should just get over you. I just don’t UNDERSTAND. Why can’t I get over you? I feel like I’ve done everything I could to move on. But you are always cropping up in my mind…” I bury my face into his chest, hoping he can’t sense the new moisture blending with his sweat.
“I don’t want you to get over me, Travis. Not anymore. I’m trying to spell it out for you. I’m jealous of Zane—because of what he had with you. I just know that we could do it BETTER.” Chris leans in and nibbles on my neck. He breathes on me again, slowly moving up till he is blowing in my ear. “I want to fuck you, Travis. Not like last time. Not like leftovers. Not an afterthought. I want to fuck you so good that you can never get over me, not tomorrow, not next week, not ever, because the guy from your dreams made them real and there is no beating that.”
“Chris…” I whimper.
Chris’s warm lips brush against mine, making them spark. “I can be nice,” he says, rubbing my shoulders.
I try to slow my breathing—my heartbeat.
“And I can be mean too.”
I feel the sting of his palm against my ass and my jaw drops in shock. Before I can even close my mouth, he pulls my face into his armpit.
Chris’s wet lips find my ear and envelope it. He exhales. “I’m not a philosopher. So you’ll just have to tell me if it feels just right.”
I moan into his pit.
“C’mon Travis, drag your tongue against it,” he whispers. My tongue falls out of my mouth and I strain it against his armpit over and over, his little hairs prickling me. The smell ensnares me. My dick grows harder and my body grows softer.
I draw the sweat from his pit and into my mouth over and over.
“Swallow it, boy,” Chris says.
I drink his pit sweat down. It’s richer than Zane’s—less salty, but more flavorful. I’m lost in Chris now—there is no escape. I crave him. I abandon my pride and whine weakly, drinking from his pit like a starving animal.
Chris chuckles. His laugh is so much warmer than Zane’s. There are times when Chris can be brutal and charming at the same time, because he is so playful and tantalizing—you just get captured in him. Zane, well, he is a whole other animal. Zane is at his best when he sees things not just as what they seem to be, but what they are when you look at them funny—what they could be, if the world twisted a little more. And somehow—he can be likeable in his own way too.
Chris and Zane are at their best when I am close to them—when I know them—when they know me.
“What do you think about when you swirl your tongue around like that?” Chris whispers.
I shiver.
“I want to make you happy,” I say. My lips trace over his pit hairs as I speak. “I want to be your paintbrush—coating the sky with stars.”
I lick him again, then sweep my lips against his hot, wet skin.
Chris chuckles, his lips finding my ear. “Don’t leave your masterpiece half painted, then.”
He pulls me out by my hair and shoves me into his other pit.
The totality of his musk entraps me. The victory sweat, born out of the tribulations of taking down Zane and Calvin in succession. I whimper and lap and suck. Chris rubs me around in his pit until every inch of my face is covered in it. The pressure on my head varies as Chris clenches his fist and softens his grip around my hair. Eventually he pulls me back, and I whine, slurping at air.
“You can just call me master for short,” Chris says.
Chris won me over, didn’t he?
The reality is setting in.
I am his slave. And he is…
“Yes--master,” I whimper. I stick my tongue out and catch one last bead of sweat.
My exhaling becomes louder and rises in pitch.
Chris smirks.
“Tell me what you want,” he says.
“I want your cock,” I whisper. I lean in and suck on his neck. I drop kisses on his rounded pectorals as I move down. “Please, Chris. I want you to make me your bitch.”
His fingers tangle in my hair as I move further down.
“Please, Chris.”
Chris growls and tightens his grip on me. My lips graze his abdominals, which ripple with waves of light and darkness under my soft touch.
I can see the outline of his cock in his white silk boxers, and it looks downright vulgar stretching the fabric so far. A bead of moisture pools, outlining the head.
I slowly pull the waistband of his boxers away from his body. His cock flips out and a fleck of precum hops onto my lip. I lick it off. I tuck the waistband under his balls—which makes them balance, compressed one way and stretched another. Snug—tense. I move toward his balls, and Chris tightens his grip on my hair.
“Please, Chris. Please let me suck you. Please—let me make you happy. Please—master.”
Chris squeezes my head with one hand and jacks his cock with the other. I shiver in spite of myself.
“What are you nervous about?” Chris asks.
“I want to be with you,” I whisper. “But I’m afraid I want a dream of you—a vision of you—that isn’t available in the real world.”
The head of Chris’s big cock snags on my lips. We let it rest there and I look up into his big gold eyes.
Chris smirks. “Maybe you just need to spend less time in your thoughts and more time in the physical world. I’m all kinds of real, Travis.”
I kiss his cock softly—once, twice, three times.
Then, it slides naturally down my throat.
“Fuck,” Chris says, his voice breaking. “The way your tongue flips—maybe Zane was right to nickname you ‘coin’.”
I take him till his balls envelop my chin and his abdominals veil my face.
I feel Chris’s hand pulling me off by my hair. He rips me off his cock and I feel a tear streaking down my cheek. “Chris,” I whimper, looking down. “Please don’t use Zane’s nickname for me.”
“You tired of getting tossed around? Want something a bit more stable?” Chris points my head up toward him again.
Every fiber of who I am shakes at the sight of him. I feel weak. I clear my throat.
“I want you inside me, Chris. I want to look into your eyes while you are inside me.”
“Ride me,” Chris says.
I swallow.
I get off the bed for a moment, pulling my underwear off. Chris’s white silk boxers hit me in the face and I roll my eyes, brushing them away.
“Is this going to be too dry?” Chris asks.
He flips his big cock against his stomach. I take a moment to appreciate how beautiful he is. Defined, curved muscles stretch from his legs to his abs to his pecs; his biceps flex, shimmering in the starlight; the landscape of his hair, rolling from streaky to fuzzy along its hill of growth; his cocky, shadowed, golden-brown eyes; his convoluted smile; the shadow of a dimple forming on both sides…
“Zane likes to rim me,” I say softly. Chris’s eyes bug out and I laugh, stumbling back into the bed.
Chris pulls me into him and shoves two fingers in my mouth.
“I’m not going to do that, Travis,” he says.
I nod around his fingers.
“This is the closest I get.”
He pulls his fingers out of my mouth and drags them along my ass crack. I gasp. Chris rotates, shoving two fingers from his free hand into my open mouth, muffling me as he starts to finger my hole. My asshole absorbs the moisture from one hand while my mouth dampens the other.
Eventually, he exchanges his hands.
The fingers on my ass are wet again, but this time, they do not linger very long.
Chris shoves them inside.
I squeal around Chris’s other fingers, tasting traces of my ass, and he laughs.
I snarl, crawling forward on top of him on my hands and knees. I lean back till his fingers are wrenched from my holes and my ass grazes his skin. Chris’s cockhead gets wrapped up in my ballsack, stretching it out and stabbing me in vulnerable places. I fish it out, repositioning it at my crack, squeezing it at the base.
He lifts an eyebrow.
“I know you don’t like my hands,” I say, pouting, “but it’s just for a second.”
I lean back. I feel his big cock stretching against my ass cheeks. The pressure is building. His cock is running out of space to squirm out. It lingers at the cusp, my stubborn ass denying him entrance for now.
Chris looks up at me and I look into his eyes, biting my lip. He grips my shoulders—smirking—and he pushes me down.
I gasp as his cock opens my hole. The first few inches burrow inside.
“God Chris,” I whimper. My mouth falls half-open; my eyes close; I wrench my face to the side. My body is shaking again.
“C’mon Travis. Paint us that dream in the stars.”
I nod—failing to close my mouth. I palm my ass-cheeks with each of my hands, spreading them apart. I sink further down Chris’s big cock, stifling a shriek. I feel Chris’s hand cover my mouth and I suck on it hard. He slides his hand across my face and I kiss it over and over; sucking on his palm, the skin above the bones at the edge, and the wrinkles that ring the column of each finger. The tips lodge past my mouth and dig deeper. He slides his fingers over my tongue and towards my throat. I wrap my lips around them, sucking and moaning. I feel the familiar grip of his left hand on my hair.
He looks me dead in the eyes. With one hand inside me, and the other above me, he has complete leverage over me. His biceps flex and he forces me down. His fingers muffle my squeal as his cock impales me further. I reach down and wrap my hand around the base of his manhood. I still have several more inches to take and I am not sure that I can.
I knead my ass with my hands, coercing it to unclench—to temper. Chris tightens his grip on my head, and I feel my body relaxing. My hole opens and gravity pulls me balls-deep down around Chris’s pipe. I whimper as my body softens. Then, my dick flips up and hits my stomach.
I suddenly remember the dream I was having back when I bolted awake.
I was back at the carousel—except this time I was the horse.
I grab my dick and jack it fiercely.
I try to shake the dream away. I focus on moving up and down on the huge pole inside me. It stretches me wide—I whine—it traces the spot in my ass that makes my eyes spark—this time, it is not my ass, but my rock-hard dick that hurts—white flashes before my eyes—and my dream lingers over me.
I was the metal horse. The world looked red through my eyes. I had a golden, metal pole that skewered me—that moved me from the inside—up and down, round and round—
Chris snarls, dragging his fingers out of my mouth so he can knock my hand away from my dick. I’m not sure why, but I decide to wait a minute at least before jacking myself again.
He rubs my shoulders; forging circles there.
I move up and down on his cock, over and over, letting him fill me, making him stretch me, coercing the light to flash in front of my eyes until my dream blends with my vision again.
“Chris,” I whimper.
“Take it, bitch,” Chris snarls. “I know you can take it.”
I start to ride him faster, slamming my ass balls-deep against him. He lies there, smiling and flexing. He can’t adjust his arms to match my furious movements, so he tucks them behind his head instead. The hair in his armpits glints and I swallow.
I am doing all the work—sweat is pouring off of me—as I give Chris all that I know how.
Some of his hair has matted down and staggers over his forehead--beset by dewdrops of sweat. I reach down and brush it out of his eyes.
I look down at Chris. Shadowed amber and gold eyes stare back.
Suddenly, I roll us over. Chris’s cock slips out in the commotion. He is on top of me now. I hold my legs up, flashing him my hole.
“Pound me, Chris.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
---
Feedback always appreciated. Messages keep me in the mood to write and edit and brainstorm. Always grateful for kind words and constructive ideas.
email: krazytop@gmail.com
tumblr: http://krazytop.tumblr.com/
---
Taste of Power, Part 13
Part XIII
This is it.
The showdown.
Calvin and I stand to the side, looking on. He drapes his arm over me, acting like everything is normal—but honestly, I don’t know what normal is for me anymore.
Zane and Chris circle one another. Zane is in his red jockstrap, while Chris is clad in his silk white boxers. Otherwise they are bare, their muscular glory on full display under the dim, flickering light.
Their facial expressions mirror one another. A calm confidence, a sense of—knowing.
One of them must be gravely mistaken.
Voices bounce around in my mind.
At first it is Chris and Zane—memories ricochet back at me, but then the voices become lyrical and creative.
Am I going mad?
I’ve wondered for a while now.
The underwater sensation from earlier--when Zane slapped my ears--seems to blend with the convictions of those before me, in an echoing, barking doggerel.
Flip the coin, roll the dice
Mimic or explore
You can’t tell if the land is new
Or ground you’ve tread before
Their arms entangle; it’s hard to see where Zane ends and Chris begins, especially with their hairs prickling up and the blurry motion. I rarely get a chance to watch Chris and Zane go at it in practice, but on the few occasions I do, I’m treated to a spectacle.
This is something else.
And yet—I feel an almost hypnotic sense of fuzziness.
Sleep into reality
And wake up all your dreams
You can’t capture what really is
Trapped inside what seems
Each wrestler is cautious—unwilling to make a gambit, reluctant to break the symmetry of the game. Their flexed muscles quiver—the strain is constant and sticky. They match up; they intertwine.
It’s hard to imagine one of them losing.
At long last, Zane changes tact, using all his strength to pull sideways, dragging each of them to the floor. They tumble around, halting on their sides, looking into one another’s eyes, their arms still interlocked.
Chris looks a tad disoriented, but his leg is on the outside of the heap, and with a visceral growl, he wraps it around Zane’s thigh, tightening in a kind of vice-grip.
Slowly climb the pyramid
The pharaoh sleeps under
You can’t sense which way is up
In afterlives you plunder
Zane crinkles his face, thrashing his arms free, batting Chris’s arms up with one hand and gripping at Chris’s body with the other.
Chris gapes, then bites his lip, channeling his strength into a twisting motion, vying to force Zane underneath him.
A tear drips from Chris’s eye and stains the mat.
That’s when I realize—when Zane clutched at Chris’s body, he grabbed Chris’s balls. Now Zane is squeezing them, and twisting, a glint forming in his green eyes.
Slaves built the greatest legacy
The Oroboros line
You can’t make heads or tails
Of devils you divine
Chris stiffens as he forces Zane beneath him. Zane’s abdominals bulge, winching his upper body—he refuses to let his shoulders hit the mat. He tightens his grip on Chris’s balls, and Chris roars, worming, slamming Zane’s knuckles between his legs and against the floor.
Zane twists forward and the two wrestlers are interlocked on their sides again. Purple bruises blemish Zane’s swollen fingers, but it only seems to egg on his rage.
What makes an idol false?
And what makes an idol true?
You can’t always decide
What choice is up to you?
With a slam Chris is underneath Zane. Calvin starts to count it off.
Wrestle with your thoughts
Then confine them to dust
You can’t know a priori
The risk that you trust
Calvin only makes it to two before Chris bullies his way out from under Zane. They grapple; the action is fuzzy; Chris flexes his arm around Zane’s head. Zane’s face is buried in Chris’s armpit. Zane wriggles free, gasping, but by then Chris has broken him down, stretching their intertwining legs in a way that makes Zane inelegantly positioned to fight back.
Their arms interlock again, but this time, Zane’s shoulders are firmly against the mat.
“One,” Calvin cracks.
The tomb of silence is back.
“Two.”
The maggot-like crawl of goose bumps ridging on my skin.
“Three.”
It’s over. Just like that—I can’t believe it.
Chris has won.
---
Chris orders Zane off to the cider shelves, to fetch us hard cider and wine glasses.
Their eyes glitter as they stare at each other—not in passionate affection, but rather, in some kind of doppelganger emotion. The interaction is beyond me.
Zane shrugs Chris off of him and sidles away.
As we make our way back to the entertainment center, Calvin thumps me on my shoulder. “Why don’t you pick out something to watch while we cool down for a while?”
I look into his eyes, and I see a hint of remorse there.
Confusion grips me, but I shake my thoughts loose. I pop in the Mokimon movie, and then I sit between Calvin and Chris on the couch. I’m enveloped in their heat—in the vapor of their sweat.
All of us are still in our boxers, and my heart is beating quickly.
I never climaxed after I sucked Calvin’s dick, and it shows. Try as I might, I can’t get my dick to go down. Sitting sandwiched between two jocks, stripped of the brunt of their customary refinement (and, indeed, down to their boxers), yet beaming in victory, their pectorals rising impulsively in triumph –has me on edge.
Perhaps if Zane had not been beaten, the frustration of my own defeat would have sunk in about now, but instead, I feel a sense of belonging.
Not that I am meant to be a victor, but rather, that I belong to a victor.
I am a bargaining chip. A coin.
A slave.
I look on at Zane with a look of compassion as he uncorks the bottle, but he remains expressionless.
Did I wish he had won? Was I wrong to have told Calvin—I approved of the game?
“How tall do you want your glass?” Zane asks.
“Half,” Calvin says, biting his lip. He shifts in his seat.
“Full for me,” Chris says.
Zane had avoided my gaze. It sends lightning sparks through me when he glares right into my eyes. “And does our guest of honor want a glass?”
“I don’t drink,” I mumble, looking down.
“You don’t drink?” Zane repeats, incredulous. “You drink human urine. Suddenly you are a connoisseur?”
“Easy now,” Chris says. “He lost--just like you. You don’t have any authority over him anymore.”
“Like hell I don’t!” Zane hisses. “Faggot pussy position.”
Slowly, I sink forward off the couch and onto my knees. I reach for my boxers.
“No,” Calvin says, gripping me by the hair. “You don’t have to obey him anymore.”
I look into Calvin’s eyes, then back at Zane.
“Do it punk,” Zane says. “Show them how good I got you trained.”
I push my boxers down to my knees and bow down between Zane’s feet.
Like a lightning rod struck, Calvin bolts up and shoves Zane again. “You lost, asshole. I get Travis for a few hours. A few hours of freedom.”
“He doesn’t want your freedom. He’d rather be a slave to me than a free man with you.”
When Calvin moves at Zane again, Zane retaliates, swinging his arm out, splashing the hard cider all over Calvin’s upper chest and chin.
“What the hell, man?” Calvin says. “You are supposed to behave. For a few hours of your life, can’t you behave?”
“No.”
“Why even pour me a glass if you are just going to toss it all over me?”
“Why do people have kids when they are all going to die?”
Chris throws the remaining contents of his glass into Zane’s face.
“Well, fuck you too,” Zane says, choosing an odd time to finally smile. “At least my spill was an accident. My arm just kind of—you know--slipped out.”
“Clean the mess off of him,” Chris says.
Zane wrinkles his face, and then reaches for the stack of brown paper napkins, but Chris bats Zane’s hand away.
“With your tongue,” Chris adds.
“No homo, bro,” Zane says.
“So--do it platonically.”
“Fine,” Zane says, rolling his eyes. He pushes Calvin back into the couch, then steps over me, clinking the bottle down between my outstretched legs. I hear the clap of their bodies as he pins Calvin flat on the cushions. “Didn’t put up much of a fight—like usual.”
“Zane,” Calvin says, breathing loudly. Hesitation flecks his voice. “Fuck!”
I crane my neck in time to see Zane’s protruding tongue curl and capture a little pool of cider on Calvin’s chest.
Calvin grunts, shaking a bit. “Tickles, man. What the hell, guys…”
Zane raises his eyebrows, his eyes glinting--his lip curling--as he drags his tongue over Calvin’s stretched pectorals.
“Get him off me, Chris!” Calvin shouts.
“Grab his wrists,” Chris says.
Calvin grips Zane’s wrists tightly. Chris positions one foot on either side of me, looming above me, with his crotch dangerously close to Zane’s face. Then Chris arches his back, projecting his silk bulge right at Zane’s lips.
“No homo, asshole,” Zane says, frowning again.
“What if it was an accident? What if it—you know—just kind of slipped out?”
“You’d know better than to try that with me,” Zane growls.
Chris reaches over, grabs the pouch of garlic sauce, and slowly drizzles it into Zane’s hair. It runs down his face in little streaks. Shock flecks his green eyes, morphing quickly to rage.
“Come on, Zane.” Chris frees his cock, pushing the bulbous head against Zane’s lips. Zane recoils and turns; Chris chases him with his bouncing shaft.
Then--Zane emits a visceral roar, and Chris freezes.
For a moment, all is quiet.
“Let me be clear, Chris. If you do this, I will go home, grab my dad’s revolver, and shoot you in the head.”
Zane and Chris glare at one another for a few moments, with Calvin and I draped helplessly under them, reduced to spectators.
“Let him go,” Chris says, and Calvin lets go of Zane’s wrists. He turns back to Zane. “You lost, Zane. You lost fair and square, and now you are a sore loser. Calvin is right. If you can’t behave, you can’t play. So how about you just go home?”
Zane gets to his feet, looking us over one last time, his facial expression draining away. Then, in an awkward huff, he grabs his clothes off the floor, throws them on, and turns away.
I hear each creaking step echo as Zane ascends out of sight, slamming the cellar door behind him.
“Get the fuck off the floor,” Chris says.
I stand up, gaping.
“So—are we going to finish this damn movie?” Chris asks.
I nod.
“Snuggle up behind Calvin on the couch,” Chris says.
It never occurs to either of us to argue. As I wiggle into place, Chris walks up the stairs to lock the cellar door. He comes back down grinning from ear to ear, and I shift in place, waiting for him to stop looming over us.
Chris slowly crawls over me, lying behind me on the couch. I can’t even focus on the movie when Calvin plays it. I feel Chris’s lips drag across my back and my neck. He sucks on my skin softly and I shudder.
I float through the film, the images flashing like the ideas that sit on your eyelids when sleep is near.
I melt into the men around me. I feel a quiet peace.
When it ends, we sit up on the couch, remembering ourselves. I shiver, growing cold.
They each nurse another glass of cider as it grows closer and closer to midnight.
---
This time, I am the only on the sidelines. My heart pounds. Honestly--I am not sure who I want to win. They circle each other; they slide their hands up one another arms till they’ve grabbed shoulders.
Chris, my idol—my dream—socially astute, physically perfect, coquettish, and fun when he wants to be. His golden eyes twinkle like sunlight and his muscles cast deep shadows like a hillside at dawn. He makes my mouth water, my heart race, and my knees buckle.
Calvin, my best friend for so long—my crutch—caring, cute, youthful, and loving. His blue eyes sparkle like foam on the ocean and his muscles fold like waves on the sand. He makes my lips tingle, my toes spark, and my eyes well.
I don’t even want to think about what Zane makes me feel. He is intoxicating.
There isn’t much time to think it over. Chris is stronger and more skillful than the rest of us. It was impressive how long Zane lasted, frankly.
Chris breaks him down, tracing Calvin’s limbs into jelly, moving them into awkward places with precise positioning of his legs and arms. Calvin collapses; Chris is on top of him; Calvin cannot even roll them over once; he struggles; but Chris is solid, consistent, and uncompromising on the mat.
It is no contest.
I count it out.
“Thanks for dropping by,” Chris says.
Calvin bows his head, biting his lip.
He brushes himself off as he gets to his feet. He seems dazed as we walk back to the entertainment center.
He puts on his clothes in a rush.
“Calvin—“
“Have fun with Chris,” he says. He won’t even look at me.
“Calvin—“ I repeat. He doesn’t look back at me as he walks away and climbs the stairs.
I turn around, trying to work out how I feel, and I stumble into Chris’s chest.
I’m arched forward, so when Chris grabs my head and tilts it back, I’m looking up into his golden eyes.
The cellar door reverberates above.
“Let’s chat,” Chris says, nodding to the couch.
I sit down, and he sits next to me, and we look at the blank screen for about a minute.
“What’s there to talk about?” I ask.
“We could talk about how you’ve been staring at my cock every chance you get, but now that we are alone, you aren’t making a move.”
“And here I was hoping we would talk about the meaning of life.”
Chris laughs and pushes me a bit. When I spring back, he pushes me harder, crawling on top me, biting his lip inches from my face.
“Why is it that with Zane, you let him do whatever the hell he wants, but with me, you expect so much more?”
“Because it’s you, Chris.”
Chris starts to massage my shoulders, then my chest, and I push out in spite of myself, emitting a soft moan.
“My turn to sculpt you a bit, I guess,” he says.
“Hell,” I whisper. “Chris—“
“You like that? You like my hands all over your body?”
“Yeah.”
“I know. But I wonder…” He climbs off of me, retrieves the shark tooth necklace from my pile of clothes, and adorns me with it. The chain-link sits cool on my neck; the tooth digs slightly into my pectorals.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask.
“It’s no secret I have a kind of power over you. Zane too--in his own way. It gets you going. Don’t deny it. But Zane and I--we play by a different set of rules. If Zane acts like a monster, then, well, that’s just him being himself. But if I act half as bad, then you might as well ring the town bell and crucify me. Because, as you said, it’s me. And I’m held to higher standards.”
I tongue my top lip.
Chris delves onward. “So I guess I’m asking—if the stuff that turns you on the most also offends you—then what the do really you want? Do you even know?”
“I want to make you happy. But I want to be happy too. I want--something deep and long-lasting. Something fullfilling. A happiness—that doesn’t flame out.”
“You put me on this pedestal,” Chris says, twisting the links in the chain. As he does, the slack diminishes turn by turn. “What am I supposed to think, when you keep acting like you want more and more, yet you act like it’s a dream come true when Zane treats you worse and worse?”
“You’re a dream come true, Chris,” I say, but as he tightens the chain, the words are strained. “I’m just more sensitive with you is all. Don’t be mad. I swear—there’s nothing I’d do for Zane I wouldn’t do for you.”
“Prove it.”
I look into Chris’s eyes. “It’s my nature to fight back. To act proud. That doesn’t mean it isn’t cathartic to lose sometimes.”
“Hit me,” Chris says, the gold in his eyes glimmering. “Right in the abs. Go on.”
I jab him in the abdominals and he smirks, unfazed. He twists the chain again and it garrotes me, clenching my neck.
The echoes from earlier spike, then snuff out.
I can hear the white noise of the television screen.
It hits me that I can barely breathe, and I open my mouth reflexively, leaning toward him with my tongue lolling, looking for signs of mercy on his face.
He tugs me right and left by the chain, and my eyes widen.
His eyes glimmer as he blows a soft kiss.
He puts his thumb in the cleft of my chin, with the tip on my bottom lip, and I prod it with my tongue, gazing up into his golden-brown eyes.
---
Feedback always appreciated. Messages keep me in the mood to write and edit and brainstorm. Always grateful for kind words and constructive ideas.
email: krazytop@gmail.com
tumblr: http://krazytop.tumblr.com/
---
This is it.
The showdown.
Calvin and I stand to the side, looking on. He drapes his arm over me, acting like everything is normal—but honestly, I don’t know what normal is for me anymore.
Zane and Chris circle one another. Zane is in his red jockstrap, while Chris is clad in his silk white boxers. Otherwise they are bare, their muscular glory on full display under the dim, flickering light.
Their facial expressions mirror one another. A calm confidence, a sense of—knowing.
One of them must be gravely mistaken.
Voices bounce around in my mind.
At first it is Chris and Zane—memories ricochet back at me, but then the voices become lyrical and creative.
Am I going mad?
I’ve wondered for a while now.
The underwater sensation from earlier--when Zane slapped my ears--seems to blend with the convictions of those before me, in an echoing, barking doggerel.
Flip the coin, roll the dice
Mimic or explore
You can’t tell if the land is new
Or ground you’ve tread before
Their arms entangle; it’s hard to see where Zane ends and Chris begins, especially with their hairs prickling up and the blurry motion. I rarely get a chance to watch Chris and Zane go at it in practice, but on the few occasions I do, I’m treated to a spectacle.
This is something else.
And yet—I feel an almost hypnotic sense of fuzziness.
Sleep into reality
And wake up all your dreams
You can’t capture what really is
Trapped inside what seems
Each wrestler is cautious—unwilling to make a gambit, reluctant to break the symmetry of the game. Their flexed muscles quiver—the strain is constant and sticky. They match up; they intertwine.
It’s hard to imagine one of them losing.
At long last, Zane changes tact, using all his strength to pull sideways, dragging each of them to the floor. They tumble around, halting on their sides, looking into one another’s eyes, their arms still interlocked.
Chris looks a tad disoriented, but his leg is on the outside of the heap, and with a visceral growl, he wraps it around Zane’s thigh, tightening in a kind of vice-grip.
Slowly climb the pyramid
The pharaoh sleeps under
You can’t sense which way is up
In afterlives you plunder
Zane crinkles his face, thrashing his arms free, batting Chris’s arms up with one hand and gripping at Chris’s body with the other.
Chris gapes, then bites his lip, channeling his strength into a twisting motion, vying to force Zane underneath him.
A tear drips from Chris’s eye and stains the mat.
That’s when I realize—when Zane clutched at Chris’s body, he grabbed Chris’s balls. Now Zane is squeezing them, and twisting, a glint forming in his green eyes.
Slaves built the greatest legacy
The Oroboros line
You can’t make heads or tails
Of devils you divine
Chris stiffens as he forces Zane beneath him. Zane’s abdominals bulge, winching his upper body—he refuses to let his shoulders hit the mat. He tightens his grip on Chris’s balls, and Chris roars, worming, slamming Zane’s knuckles between his legs and against the floor.
Zane twists forward and the two wrestlers are interlocked on their sides again. Purple bruises blemish Zane’s swollen fingers, but it only seems to egg on his rage.
What makes an idol false?
And what makes an idol true?
You can’t always decide
What choice is up to you?
With a slam Chris is underneath Zane. Calvin starts to count it off.
Wrestle with your thoughts
Then confine them to dust
You can’t know a priori
The risk that you trust
Calvin only makes it to two before Chris bullies his way out from under Zane. They grapple; the action is fuzzy; Chris flexes his arm around Zane’s head. Zane’s face is buried in Chris’s armpit. Zane wriggles free, gasping, but by then Chris has broken him down, stretching their intertwining legs in a way that makes Zane inelegantly positioned to fight back.
Their arms interlock again, but this time, Zane’s shoulders are firmly against the mat.
“One,” Calvin cracks.
The tomb of silence is back.
“Two.”
The maggot-like crawl of goose bumps ridging on my skin.
“Three.”
It’s over. Just like that—I can’t believe it.
Chris has won.
---
Chris orders Zane off to the cider shelves, to fetch us hard cider and wine glasses.
Their eyes glitter as they stare at each other—not in passionate affection, but rather, in some kind of doppelganger emotion. The interaction is beyond me.
Zane shrugs Chris off of him and sidles away.
As we make our way back to the entertainment center, Calvin thumps me on my shoulder. “Why don’t you pick out something to watch while we cool down for a while?”
I look into his eyes, and I see a hint of remorse there.
Confusion grips me, but I shake my thoughts loose. I pop in the Mokimon movie, and then I sit between Calvin and Chris on the couch. I’m enveloped in their heat—in the vapor of their sweat.
All of us are still in our boxers, and my heart is beating quickly.
I never climaxed after I sucked Calvin’s dick, and it shows. Try as I might, I can’t get my dick to go down. Sitting sandwiched between two jocks, stripped of the brunt of their customary refinement (and, indeed, down to their boxers), yet beaming in victory, their pectorals rising impulsively in triumph –has me on edge.
Perhaps if Zane had not been beaten, the frustration of my own defeat would have sunk in about now, but instead, I feel a sense of belonging.
Not that I am meant to be a victor, but rather, that I belong to a victor.
I am a bargaining chip. A coin.
A slave.
I look on at Zane with a look of compassion as he uncorks the bottle, but he remains expressionless.
Did I wish he had won? Was I wrong to have told Calvin—I approved of the game?
“How tall do you want your glass?” Zane asks.
“Half,” Calvin says, biting his lip. He shifts in his seat.
“Full for me,” Chris says.
Zane had avoided my gaze. It sends lightning sparks through me when he glares right into my eyes. “And does our guest of honor want a glass?”
“I don’t drink,” I mumble, looking down.
“You don’t drink?” Zane repeats, incredulous. “You drink human urine. Suddenly you are a connoisseur?”
“Easy now,” Chris says. “He lost--just like you. You don’t have any authority over him anymore.”
“Like hell I don’t!” Zane hisses. “Faggot pussy position.”
Slowly, I sink forward off the couch and onto my knees. I reach for my boxers.
“No,” Calvin says, gripping me by the hair. “You don’t have to obey him anymore.”
I look into Calvin’s eyes, then back at Zane.
“Do it punk,” Zane says. “Show them how good I got you trained.”
I push my boxers down to my knees and bow down between Zane’s feet.
Like a lightning rod struck, Calvin bolts up and shoves Zane again. “You lost, asshole. I get Travis for a few hours. A few hours of freedom.”
“He doesn’t want your freedom. He’d rather be a slave to me than a free man with you.”
When Calvin moves at Zane again, Zane retaliates, swinging his arm out, splashing the hard cider all over Calvin’s upper chest and chin.
“What the hell, man?” Calvin says. “You are supposed to behave. For a few hours of your life, can’t you behave?”
“No.”
“Why even pour me a glass if you are just going to toss it all over me?”
“Why do people have kids when they are all going to die?”
Chris throws the remaining contents of his glass into Zane’s face.
“Well, fuck you too,” Zane says, choosing an odd time to finally smile. “At least my spill was an accident. My arm just kind of—you know--slipped out.”
“Clean the mess off of him,” Chris says.
Zane wrinkles his face, and then reaches for the stack of brown paper napkins, but Chris bats Zane’s hand away.
“With your tongue,” Chris adds.
“No homo, bro,” Zane says.
“So--do it platonically.”
“Fine,” Zane says, rolling his eyes. He pushes Calvin back into the couch, then steps over me, clinking the bottle down between my outstretched legs. I hear the clap of their bodies as he pins Calvin flat on the cushions. “Didn’t put up much of a fight—like usual.”
“Zane,” Calvin says, breathing loudly. Hesitation flecks his voice. “Fuck!”
I crane my neck in time to see Zane’s protruding tongue curl and capture a little pool of cider on Calvin’s chest.
Calvin grunts, shaking a bit. “Tickles, man. What the hell, guys…”
Zane raises his eyebrows, his eyes glinting--his lip curling--as he drags his tongue over Calvin’s stretched pectorals.
“Get him off me, Chris!” Calvin shouts.
“Grab his wrists,” Chris says.
Calvin grips Zane’s wrists tightly. Chris positions one foot on either side of me, looming above me, with his crotch dangerously close to Zane’s face. Then Chris arches his back, projecting his silk bulge right at Zane’s lips.
“No homo, asshole,” Zane says, frowning again.
“What if it was an accident? What if it—you know—just kind of slipped out?”
“You’d know better than to try that with me,” Zane growls.
Chris reaches over, grabs the pouch of garlic sauce, and slowly drizzles it into Zane’s hair. It runs down his face in little streaks. Shock flecks his green eyes, morphing quickly to rage.
“Come on, Zane.” Chris frees his cock, pushing the bulbous head against Zane’s lips. Zane recoils and turns; Chris chases him with his bouncing shaft.
Then--Zane emits a visceral roar, and Chris freezes.
For a moment, all is quiet.
“Let me be clear, Chris. If you do this, I will go home, grab my dad’s revolver, and shoot you in the head.”
Zane and Chris glare at one another for a few moments, with Calvin and I draped helplessly under them, reduced to spectators.
“Let him go,” Chris says, and Calvin lets go of Zane’s wrists. He turns back to Zane. “You lost, Zane. You lost fair and square, and now you are a sore loser. Calvin is right. If you can’t behave, you can’t play. So how about you just go home?”
Zane gets to his feet, looking us over one last time, his facial expression draining away. Then, in an awkward huff, he grabs his clothes off the floor, throws them on, and turns away.
I hear each creaking step echo as Zane ascends out of sight, slamming the cellar door behind him.
“Get the fuck off the floor,” Chris says.
I stand up, gaping.
“So—are we going to finish this damn movie?” Chris asks.
I nod.
“Snuggle up behind Calvin on the couch,” Chris says.
It never occurs to either of us to argue. As I wiggle into place, Chris walks up the stairs to lock the cellar door. He comes back down grinning from ear to ear, and I shift in place, waiting for him to stop looming over us.
Chris slowly crawls over me, lying behind me on the couch. I can’t even focus on the movie when Calvin plays it. I feel Chris’s lips drag across my back and my neck. He sucks on my skin softly and I shudder.
I float through the film, the images flashing like the ideas that sit on your eyelids when sleep is near.
I melt into the men around me. I feel a quiet peace.
When it ends, we sit up on the couch, remembering ourselves. I shiver, growing cold.
They each nurse another glass of cider as it grows closer and closer to midnight.
---
This time, I am the only on the sidelines. My heart pounds. Honestly--I am not sure who I want to win. They circle each other; they slide their hands up one another arms till they’ve grabbed shoulders.
Chris, my idol—my dream—socially astute, physically perfect, coquettish, and fun when he wants to be. His golden eyes twinkle like sunlight and his muscles cast deep shadows like a hillside at dawn. He makes my mouth water, my heart race, and my knees buckle.
Calvin, my best friend for so long—my crutch—caring, cute, youthful, and loving. His blue eyes sparkle like foam on the ocean and his muscles fold like waves on the sand. He makes my lips tingle, my toes spark, and my eyes well.
I don’t even want to think about what Zane makes me feel. He is intoxicating.
There isn’t much time to think it over. Chris is stronger and more skillful than the rest of us. It was impressive how long Zane lasted, frankly.
Chris breaks him down, tracing Calvin’s limbs into jelly, moving them into awkward places with precise positioning of his legs and arms. Calvin collapses; Chris is on top of him; Calvin cannot even roll them over once; he struggles; but Chris is solid, consistent, and uncompromising on the mat.
It is no contest.
I count it out.
“Thanks for dropping by,” Chris says.
Calvin bows his head, biting his lip.
He brushes himself off as he gets to his feet. He seems dazed as we walk back to the entertainment center.
He puts on his clothes in a rush.
“Calvin—“
“Have fun with Chris,” he says. He won’t even look at me.
“Calvin—“ I repeat. He doesn’t look back at me as he walks away and climbs the stairs.
I turn around, trying to work out how I feel, and I stumble into Chris’s chest.
I’m arched forward, so when Chris grabs my head and tilts it back, I’m looking up into his golden eyes.
The cellar door reverberates above.
“Let’s chat,” Chris says, nodding to the couch.
I sit down, and he sits next to me, and we look at the blank screen for about a minute.
“What’s there to talk about?” I ask.
“We could talk about how you’ve been staring at my cock every chance you get, but now that we are alone, you aren’t making a move.”
“And here I was hoping we would talk about the meaning of life.”
Chris laughs and pushes me a bit. When I spring back, he pushes me harder, crawling on top me, biting his lip inches from my face.
“Why is it that with Zane, you let him do whatever the hell he wants, but with me, you expect so much more?”
“Because it’s you, Chris.”
Chris starts to massage my shoulders, then my chest, and I push out in spite of myself, emitting a soft moan.
“My turn to sculpt you a bit, I guess,” he says.
“Hell,” I whisper. “Chris—“
“You like that? You like my hands all over your body?”
“Yeah.”
“I know. But I wonder…” He climbs off of me, retrieves the shark tooth necklace from my pile of clothes, and adorns me with it. The chain-link sits cool on my neck; the tooth digs slightly into my pectorals.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask.
“It’s no secret I have a kind of power over you. Zane too--in his own way. It gets you going. Don’t deny it. But Zane and I--we play by a different set of rules. If Zane acts like a monster, then, well, that’s just him being himself. But if I act half as bad, then you might as well ring the town bell and crucify me. Because, as you said, it’s me. And I’m held to higher standards.”
I tongue my top lip.
Chris delves onward. “So I guess I’m asking—if the stuff that turns you on the most also offends you—then what the do really you want? Do you even know?”
“I want to make you happy. But I want to be happy too. I want--something deep and long-lasting. Something fullfilling. A happiness—that doesn’t flame out.”
“You put me on this pedestal,” Chris says, twisting the links in the chain. As he does, the slack diminishes turn by turn. “What am I supposed to think, when you keep acting like you want more and more, yet you act like it’s a dream come true when Zane treats you worse and worse?”
“You’re a dream come true, Chris,” I say, but as he tightens the chain, the words are strained. “I’m just more sensitive with you is all. Don’t be mad. I swear—there’s nothing I’d do for Zane I wouldn’t do for you.”
“Prove it.”
I look into Chris’s eyes. “It’s my nature to fight back. To act proud. That doesn’t mean it isn’t cathartic to lose sometimes.”
“Hit me,” Chris says, the gold in his eyes glimmering. “Right in the abs. Go on.”
I jab him in the abdominals and he smirks, unfazed. He twists the chain again and it garrotes me, clenching my neck.
The echoes from earlier spike, then snuff out.
I can hear the white noise of the television screen.
It hits me that I can barely breathe, and I open my mouth reflexively, leaning toward him with my tongue lolling, looking for signs of mercy on his face.
He tugs me right and left by the chain, and my eyes widen.
His eyes glimmer as he blows a soft kiss.
He puts his thumb in the cleft of my chin, with the tip on my bottom lip, and I prod it with my tongue, gazing up into his golden-brown eyes.
---
Feedback always appreciated. Messages keep me in the mood to write and edit and brainstorm. Always grateful for kind words and constructive ideas.
email: krazytop@gmail.com
tumblr: http://krazytop.tumblr.com/
---
Taste of Power, Part 12
Part XII
God. Oh God.
This can’t be happening.
“Let’s play a quick game right now,” Zane says, stepping out of his jeans so that he is in only his blood-red jockstrap. “I’m going to say a body part of mine—and you are going to say three reasons why you love it, punctuating each reason with a nice big, wet, smacking kiss. Does that sound nice?”
My mind is melting.
“Yessir.”
Calvin is watching. My heart pounds on my ribcage, like it wants out. Calvin is watching me do this.
“Feet.”
And somehow—it doesn’t matter.
Calvin finally finds his voice—but it is grainy and weak. “Travis—you don’t have to do this!”
“Yes, he does,” Zane says.
I sink into him.
I plant a kiss on Zane’s left foot—MNMPWA--and then the right foot—MNMPWA. “I love your feet—because they are masculine.”
MNMPWAH.
‘Raw.”
MNMPWAH.
“And musky.”
MNMPWAH.
“Hamstrings,” Zane says.
“Travis!” Calvin calls out. “This is SICK!” His voice gets a bit softer, weaker. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing.”
Part of me is glad that Calvin can see me for what I really am. Pretending for him always felt so dishonest and dirty and effortful.
I drag my lips against Zane’s leg muscles. “I love your hamstrings—because they are limber.”
MNMPWAH.
“ Lithe.”
MNMPWAH.
“And tight as fuck.”
MNMPWAH.
“Quads,” Zane says.
“Travis—please—can’t you see he’s poisoned your mind?” Calvin wails.
“I love your quads—because they are thick.”
MNMPWAH.
“Warm.”
MNMPWAH.
“And vice-grip strong.”
MNMPWAH.
“Balls.”
“TRAVIS. NO.”
The fabric of his jockstrap is covering them, so I get his jockstrap wet.
“I love your balls—because they are big.”
MNMPWAH.
“Sweaty.”
MNMPWAH.
“And I get drunk off their smell.”
MNMPWAH.
“Cock.”
“YOU SNAKE, ZANE.”
I nuzzle into Zane’s cock, spreading my lips around it, barely mumbling out the words.
“I love your cock—because it is meaty.”
MNMPWAH.
“And luscious.”
MNMPWAH.
“And stretches my holes good.”
MNMPWAH.
“You are a total fag for my cock, aren’t you?” Zane says.
“Yessir,” I mumble, my lips trapped along the outline of Zane’s pole. “I need it fucking me hard and deep, sir.”
“When you latch on like this, it’s hard to shake you off my cock.”
“Yessir,” I whisper, clamping down with my lips as he humps and wobbles my face.
“Whip it out, cunt-face. Whip it out and make your faggot dreams come true.”
Slowly, I roll Zane’s jockstrap down. His cock flips up, and I open wide, leaning in…
Zane stumbles away from me, leaning back into the wall to catch his balance, and I realize he has been pushed. Calvin stands above me, his face ashen—almost a ghostly white. He is panting, gripping his hair with one hand and pulling it away from his head like a madman.
“Can’t wrap your head around the fact—that I turned your best friend into my doting, doe-eyed slaveboy?”
“You are a MONSTER! Can’t you tell he’s been an emotional wreck? What the FUCK do you think you are doing to him? Screw drawing straws; I want to wrestle you right here, RIGHT NOW.”
“Did you forget how long it’s been since you beat me, Calvin? Are you sure--that you are up for getting humiliated again--for the umpteenth time? But anyway--rules are rules. You drew the other half of Travis’s straw. So you’ll have to get through him to get to me. Travis—why don’t you keep Calvin from pushing me again?”
I scramble to my feet and stand between Zane and Calvin, glaring into Calvin’s eyes. “Don’t touch my master.”
“Your—your master? YOU are your own master!”
“DON’T TOUCH HIM,” I growl, shoving Calvin backwards.
Calvin takes a few steps backwards. “I don’t want to fight you Travis.”
The stairs creak behind us, and Chris makes his way back down. “Too bad, Calvin,” he says. “That’s the way the game is played.”
Calvin’s expression softens. “You don’t have to, Travis.”
“Yes I do, Calvin. This game--is where I belong.”
“Looks like you two are eager to get at it,” Chris says. “So maybe it’s time I showed you one of my secrets.”
Chris beckons and we trace his footprints in the dust between a line of cider shelves. He opens a dirty door and flicks on a light. My jaw drops.
“You have your own room—for wrestling? When do you ever use it?”
“My father trained me in there. I’ve wrestled Zane a couple times here too. Well, slaughtered him is more like it.”
Zane shrugs.
Chris rolls his eyes. “Alright fuckers—no shirts. Boxers only, boys.”
Calvin and I stretch out, strip down to underwear, and stand in the starting pose on the mat.
Calvin’s underwear has little Jackie Chan cartoons on it. I would crack a smile, but seeing Zane’s expression makes me think twice.
“This isn’t what I wanted, Travis,” Calvin says. “But if this is what it takes to knock some sense into you—then my hands are tied.”
“Beat him,” Zane says, thumping me in the back. “He was never really good anyway. EXPOSE him.”
My heart is racing. Calvin, like Chris, is trying to keep Zane away from me. He is trying to make me feel guilty about what I’ve become. Zane wants me to fight him, and that’s what I will do.
“Ready?” Chris asks.
We nod.
I’ve heard that some spectators think wrestling is erotic. During the match, there isn’t any time to think about the sweat, the muscles, the heat, the tight clothes, the constant, overwhelming body contact, and the masculinity. There is only enough time to think about how you are going to win.
Whenever matches end--when I feel how beat my body is--it dawns on me that my libido has caught fire. But I would have to be outside myself to notice it in the moment.
I try to force it out of my mind.
Zane wants Calvin to lose, and if I fight right, I can make that happen.
“Go!”
My eyes jump as I see Calvin standing across from me. I bask in the swimmer’s build; the flowing muscles that swell into his chest and thread his tender neck to his face. His blue eyes dig into me; the light glittering in them like waves breaking under sunlight. And when I look into them, each of them oscillates between existing as a shroud—a woven mystery that I can break down into little threads till I realize I know nothing—and existing as a halo—a ring truth I know quite well.
I blink until the feeling is gone.
We scope out one another’s shoulders, flexing. We lean in till our heads collide. I snarl. Wrestling can be like this. It isn’t all rolling around—in fact, most of it isn’t. Mostly it is standing, circling, as well as changing your pose and angle of attack. The rolling around part is sudden, flashy, and fleeting—and you either bloom in the moment, or you shrivel.
I’m winning, I realize. Calvin is quivering under my strength. I feel rage swelling in me, that Calvin would threaten me, that he would make me feel like I need to be something other than what I am.
I don’t need Calvin’s lies.
My muscles are shaking.
I had been doing well, but Calvin had found a position where he could outlast me.
I snarl.
He’s going to break me down. I’ve lasted a while, but it won’t be much longer.
My breathing grows louder; Calvin and I look briefly into one another’s eyes.
Calvin’s arms retreat back to mine and he pulls me toward him and throws me to the ground. He launches himself on top of me; I flex and push against him, writhing; his legs intertwine with my legs; I look up into his twinkling eyes; I try to roll; he bats my arm away and find my shoulders again; I flex my abs, flailing, as he pushes me down; I grunt; he frowns; my shoulders are close to the ground—
My shoulders hit the mat; a second passes; I soften underneath Calvin, defeated, and he collapses on top of me.
“Gotcha,” he whispers in my ear.
I bite my lip.
“Calvin takes it,” Chris says, pulling him to his feet.
Zane grabs me roughly by the arm and hoists me up.
Calvin looks at me, his mouth half-open--his eyes searching.
“Let’s cool off with a game of Big Bang Brothers,” Chris says.
Calvin nods in agreement, dazed and drained from the fight.
Hopefully for his sake he gets enough time to recover before his next round of wrestling, because right now, he looks like he could lose to a gust of wind.
There are only three spots on the couch, so I sit down on the floor with my back against it. Zane sits over me, with his legs to my left and right. I’m not sure if he is mad that I lost, but I feel him run his hand through my hair.
“Don’t touch him,” Calvin says.
“Hm. Feeling—possessive?”
Calvin pouts, but passes on a true rejoinder.
Chris plugs in the controllers, and we start the match. It’s hard to focus, with Zane’s legs draped on either side of me. He wiggles them from time to time, grazing my cheek or my shoulder.
I’m playing even worse than last time.
Before we can finish, a small box on the wall blinks red and beeps and Zane has to pause the game.
Chris turns on the intercom.
“Who is it?” Chris asks.
“Pizza delivery,” the box crackles. It’s gravelly from the static.
“Just a minute,” Chris says. “I’ll rustle up a salad for you,” He says, nodding at Zane. Then he sighs, climbing the stairs and disappearing out of sight.
Then, Zane flips off the game. “So what are you going to do with the faggot?”
“Nothing. He’s a person, and I don’t want to force him to do anything.”
“Travis,” Zane says, scowling at me, his eyes narrowing. He drags me between Calvin’s legs. “Why don’t you beg Calvin for his cock?”
I look up at Calvin’s soft blue eyes. They are rippling in the dim light.
“Calvin,” I whisper, looking down. “Can I suck your cock?”
Calvin stutters, “I—I don’t want to use you, man.”
Zane walks next to Calvin, shaking his jock-clad junk in front of his face. “Maybe you don’t want to use him—because you are after something else.”
“I am not a fag,” Calvin says, shoving Zane again.
Zane chuckles. “Not a fag—not like Travis. Is that what you mean to say?”
“No—I didn’t mean…”
“Because it’s embarrassing,” Zane says, “to be what Travis is. It’s a dishonor in your mind. You could never be—as low as him.”
Calvin turns red, gripping his hair again. “That’s not what I said! You’ve crossed all kinds of lines today, Zane. I don’t even know where to start.”
Zane chuckles, tightening his grip on my hair. He forces me forward so I am inches from Calvin’s crotch. “He likes being shared Calvin. The fag let Chris into my house so we could fuck him from both ends. He begged for our cocks. C’mon faggot. Give an encore performance. Make him see you for what you are.”
“Please, Calvin,” I say softly, shuddering. “Please. I’m a faggot. Why won’t you let me be a faggot?”
Calvin bats Zane’s hand away and holds me at a distance by my hair.
“No Travis,” Calvin says.
I look down at the ground.
“See, coin?” Zane asks. “Your best friend is disgusted with what you’ve done—with what you are. He abandoned you for years because he couldn’t stand a weakling like you, and now he won’t even let you give him the ultimate pleasure because being near a fag like you is the ultimate insult. He hates you.”
I start to shiver. I clench my eyes shut.
“It’s not true,” Calvin whispers. “It’s not. Travis—look at me.”
I look up at him.
“Travis—what do you want? Honestly?”
The light in his eyes rises and falls like the ocean.
“Calvin—I want you to kiss me.”
Calvin’s eyes flash.
One of Calvin’s hands is on my hair; the other hand is on my shoulder. He lifts me off my knees; they lurch forward and dig into the couch between Chris’s legs and just miss his crotch; my face is level with his face; I can feel the heat coming off of him.
I get lost in the rolling depths of his eyes. My nose grazes his and our eyelashes mingle. His lips are voluptuous and wet. They meet mine and my eyes clench shut. I moan as his tongue pushes my mouth open and wriggles into me. He pins my tongue after a few short rolls, then he scopes out my insides as I moan softly.
His arms find my back and make short circles. I soften into him. He’s already defeated my body today; he’s already got me under his spell; but I let him continue to work me over as long as he wants. He grabs my hair and pulls me back till I am sucking at air.
“How was that?” Calvin asks.
I dive in to his sweaty, cream-colored chest and lap at it. Warm, rolling beads of sweat find my tongue and dissolve into me. He tastes salty, sweet, and slightly piquant. I swallow more sweat down, rolling my lips over his nipples and his pectorals before finding his smooth, swimmer’s abs and bathing them softly.
“Holy…” Calvin whimpers.
My hands find his boxers and pull them down. His dick springs out and flops against his belly. It’s very shapely—I’m drooling. A meaty, well-proportioned, slightly curved shaft, with a smooth pink bell-shaped head that’s leaking already.
I lunge for it, but he catches my head before I reach it.
“Are you sure you are okay with this?” Calvin asks, his cool blue eyes searching mine.
I nod, nibbling my tongue, and he sighs. “Aww, hell.”
Then, he shoves my face down into his crotch.
The head of his dick brushes my lips and I kiss it, sucking the precum down.
“Damn,” Calvin whimpers. He kicks his feet out and he grips the back of my head and neck, making more soft circles there.
“He likes it when you get a little rough with him,” Zane says, shoving me down deep on Calvin’s dick. I gag slightly as he forces me to take it all at once. Zane laughs. “Don’t fool us faggot. We know you have taken bigger.”
I thrash out, and Calvin gasps.
“You are hurting him.”
I feel Zane release me. I look up into Calvin’s soft eyes.
“Are you--okay?” he asks softly, his words broken up by panting.
I nod and he rubs my head again. I submit to his motions, sucking his dick deeper inside me and feeling the warm skin press against my mouth and throat.
“Oh god,” Calvin says.
I start to move up and down and Calvin flexes his arms and massages my shoulders.
“Well, well,” Chris says from the stairs. He chuckles. “That didn’t take long.”
“You know him,” Zane says. “No one snivels for it quite like Travis.”
“Pizza, anyone?” Chris asks.
“Don’t you think—it would be a little disrespectful—“ Calvin says. He has difficulty finishing his sentences without gasping for breath. “Disrespectful to eat pizza—while this is happening?” he asks.
“Travis likes being disrespected,” Zane says. “Moan, faggot,” he says, slapping me in the ear. Everything echoes for a moment, then rushes, as though I am underwater. I whimper, then close my eyes again.
I hear Chris clear space on the table next to the couch for the pizza boxes. “Last time he was here we played video games while he gave us head. I’m pretty sure it turns him on to be—“ Chris pauses.
“Just another party favor,” Zane concludes.
“You two need to shut up…” Calvin says.
I look up, my mouth stretched around Calvin’s dick, and see Zane shoving a piece of pizza into Calvin’s half-open mouth.
“Eat it, dude,” Zane says. The pizza won’t go further into Calvin’s mouth so Zane rubs it around his lips, until grease and sauce start to drip out. Calvin coughs, biting off a piece and starting to chew. Zane laughs. Calvin swallows the first bite and grabs the pizza from Zane, eating it slowly.
“That’s the idea,” Zane says. “Indulge in yourself. Travis doesn’t even like thinking about himself, let alone others thinking about him. Just do what comes naturally. Eat the yummy pizza and fuck the soft throat.”
Calvin grunts, thrusting his hips into me. His balls drag against my lip. He leaks and I gulp reflexively.
“Fuck,” Calvin groans.
Calvin’s hands find the back of my head, circling it, twisting it coarser. He finishes chewing.
Zane slaps my ear again. “Rougher!” Zane says. “How does it feel, Travis? To know that your last hold-out and supporter—deep down, he never thought you belonged. You are not just one of the guys. You are a FAGGOT, Travis. It’s time to accept it, once and for all.”
Calvin growls. His abdominals slap my face harder now, and his dick plunges deep inside my throat. Sweat rolls off his abs and balls and coats my face. Calvin’s noises are jagged; he tightens his grip on my head. He thrusts faster and faster into me, crashing over me like waves--like a tide drawing me in.
“Fuck. Fuck. Oh—fuck Travis,” he whimpers. “Forgive me.”
His dick is pulsing inside me; his balls press against my chin and his swimmer’s abdominals smother my face. Then, suddenly, wave after wave of cum rushes from his dick and into my waiting mouth. I take it all, feeling it roll across my tongue, down my throat, and into my stomach. I can’t stop sucking and swallowing, drawing out all I can and taking it deep inside me.
Calvin’s hands find the back of my head and his fingers trace small circles there.
I look up into Calvin’s eyes.
“How sweet,” Zane says. “But you should know—in its heart, that faggot is mine.”
I look away from Calvin, and away from Chris, and into Zane’s slicing green eyes.
Zane flashes a half-smile. I shudder, collapsing into Calvin, and resting my head on his knees.
---
It strikes me that my true self is visible to everyone that matters.
Things are coming to a head.
Zane and Chris come from different cultures in a way, from different worlds, with different ways of seeing things, and different ways of living life.
I have lived out their words, the primeval echoes of barking dogs.
When decisions are to be made, the pretense of words as the building blocks of collective logic is exposed as an utterly ridiculous fantasy.
It isn’t about words. It isn’t about ideas. It isn’t even about reality.
Words and ideas and truth can be in a man’s toolbox in the game of power, but that doesn’t mean that when gamesmanship calls for it, these things can’t be dropped for superior tools.
When decisions are made, the pretense of collective logic is exposed as an afterthought.
It is about will; it is about strength; it is about inveigling.
It is about power.
---
AMPHALOS: This is the point I originally envisioned as a half-way point. Although, looking at my notes, it might end up a bit longer. :)
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