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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