Taste of Power, Part 21

Part XXI


“What’s going on?”

Hiro’s face blotches red.  He looks dazed.  Dizzy.  Disappointed.

“Weren’t you listening, Hiro?” Zane says.  “Travis is my bitch.”

Zane steps up, putting one foot on the bench.  Then he grabs the back of my head and pushes me down till I sink to my knees.

All of us are naked.  Except the mokimon hat Zane made me wear.  I close my eyes, trying to clamp down on my impulses.  On my imagination.  Trying to get a grip.

Master smooshes my face in his foot, whipping my ass with his handcuffs.  I whimper and I kiss his foot softly.

“C’mon, BITCH!  Look into Hiro’s eyes while you suck on my toes.  Watch him judge you.”

I nibble on Zane’s toes, slurping, before craning my neck to look up into Hiro’s eyes--my mouth still full, my vision partly obscured by the bill of the cap.

Hiro wavers between pity and disgust.

Zane likes to push people over the edge.

One by one, Master transforms friends into strangers.

People into animals.

Equals into nothings.

“Zane—just let him go.  You were going to have Travis shower.  Give him a chance to clean up.”

“But you reminded me he likes to shower alone, remember?  I thought I was doing him a favor.”  Zane spits on the floor beside me.  “Go ahead, punk.  Take the chance to clean up.”

I sink to the floor, crawling over to the spot Zane where Zane spat.

“Eat it, CUNTFACE.”

I kiss the floor, sucking up Zane’s spit.

Hiro’s voice falters.  “The Travis I knew would never stand for this.”

“Hiro—how many jocks do you think stepped on that spot with their grungy feet?  Dripped their sweat on that spot after a tough workout?   Face it, Hiro.  I killed the Travis you knew.  He died and went to fag heaven.  He’s thrilled I broke him.  Aren’t you, FAGGOT?”

“Yes, Master…Thank you.”

“I don’t want to watch this,” Hiro says, grimacing.  His whole face is red now.  He lowers himself onto the bench.  “I feel sick.  I—I meant to come back to check if everything was alright.  I got my answer.  Just do me a favor, and keep it to yourself from now on.”

“But I thought you wanted us to shower with the group?”

“Must you be so contrarian?”

“No.  But I prefer it.  I like to question things.  I find the ideas that everyone accepts are exactly the ideas that need to be vetted.”

“You are terrible.  I--I need to shower,” Hiro says.  He gets up, swivels, and starts to walk away, before stumbling sideways into the lockers.

Zane sits on the bench, leans over to me, and whispers in my ear, “Crawl over to him and sniff his ass.”

Wasn’t he vehemently against me screwing around with other people just this morning?

I look up at Zane, and he gives me the look where I know better than to even think about it.

I crawl across the grungy floor, freezing just as I reach Hiro, losing initiative.

Zane pushes my face into Hiro’s ass and takes a step back.

Hiro gasps, reflexively backhanding me.  He grips my ear, slamming my head into the locker, and turns, glaring down at me.  “What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” I croak.

Hiro rounds the corner into the showers, completely disheveled.

“You do what I tell you,” Zane says, reaching down to squeeze my balls.

I whimper and nod at him.

“Follow me,” he says.  I start to get up, but Zane pushes me back down.  “On your knees.”

Zane reaches down and handcuffs my hands behind my back, and a shiver runs through my body.

I crawl next to Zane around the corner and into the showers, into plain view of the team.

God.  What does Zane want to happen?

At some level I know.

Ratchet up the request, bit by bit, in gradual, almost continuous increments. 

Each step of the way, I get a chance to acclimate, a chance to understand that it’s silly to make a fuss about a difference so small.

Zane drags me out to the middle of the showers, my legs bouncing across the wet ceramic floor, my knees skidding.

“You’d do anything for me.  Right, bitch?” He says, his voice echoing throughout the shower.

The others fall deathly quiet, taking notice.

When I look up, my face is inches from his fat cock.  My gaze works skyward, catching his cutting abs, his thick pecs, his carefully crafted tattoos, his thin face, his slicing green eyes, his red Mohawk, tinged with black, his crescent eyebrows, and his crooked smile.

All those changes he’s instilled in me add up to get me to where I am.

With the sword of Damocles swinging back and forth in front of my face.

“Yes Master,” I croak.

He pulls the mokimon hat off my head.  “Wouldn’t want to get this wet.”  Master puts it on.  The red and white colors mingle above me.  There is moisture at my eyes, making everything blurry.  I can see the green symbol, shivering in the moist light.  The broken Penrose Triangle.

“Enough,” Damerae says.  “You two had a good laugh.  Now knock it off.”

“You don’t think we are serious,” Zane says.  “But things have gotten VERY serious, Damerae.”

“Shit, dude,” Eduardo says in an overtone.  “Look at Travis’s dick.  It’s hard as a rock!”

Damerae squints, then has a case of the shivers.  “They are just playing games with us.  And each other.  He’s not really—“

“Not really what, Damerae?  My slave?  Travis—you do EVERYYTHING I say.  Don’t you?”

“Yes sir,” I say, my voice hushed and monotone.  I look down.

“He really is,” Hiro mumbles, clenching his eyes shut.

Master grabs my head and tilts it up at him, making me look him in the eyes.  Then he spits on my face. 

“This isn’t funny anymore!” Damerae says.  “Just let him go home.  He is NOT really your slave.”

“Wanna bet, Damerae?”

“Whatever, man.”

“I’ll bet you twenty bucks he’ll do whatever I tell him to do.”

Eduardo hoots.  “Do you really think he’d suck his pinga, bro?”

Damerae scowls.  “He’s a homo, Eduardo.”

“But I mean, right fucking in front of us?”

Hiro shudders.

“Maybe he would if he had an excuse to,” Damerae says, pouting.

“So then—think of something he won’t do,” Eduardo says.

“Something he wouldn’t do?” Zane says, groping his own ass cheek with one hand and thumbing his chin in mock thoughtfulness.

“He wouldn’t!” Damerae snarls.

“He wouldn’t what?  Give my ass a nice wet kiss?”

“DON”T!” Hiro growls.

 “No way,” Damerae grumbles.  “I’ll bet you twenty bucks he won’t kiss your ass, Zane.  The only thing grosser than your ass is the thought of—someone doing that.”

Zane laughs.  “Please, please, Damerae, don’t fling him in that brier-patch.”   He turns down to me, swiveling and gripping the back of my head.  “Make me rich, coin.”

“Zane…” I whisper.

“Call me Master, punk.” 

He pulls me into him.

In front of half the wrestling team?

There’s no time to think.  I’m enveloped in the smell of him.

My dick is straining; my breath is ragged; my vision is clouded.

I tongue his rich ass like a dog lapping up water.

“Sick,” Damerae says.

Eduardo hollers.  “What is fucking wrong with him, bro?”

Zane pulls me off of him and I catch my breath.  “You owe me twenty bucks, Damerae.”

Damerae gapes.

“Your turn, Eduardo,” Zane says, sneering.

“You mean you want me to—“

“Your turn to make a bet, retard.”

“No way, man,” Eduardo says.  “You’ve hustled me enough.”

“Surely you can think of something he wouldn’t do.”

“Not really.  Ugh...  I can’t decide if I wanna throw up or kick the shit out of him.  This fag really might be willing to suck your dick, right here in front of everyone.”

“He’d suck whatever the fuck came out of it.”

“You’d give him a golden shower?  Heck—I might pay just to watch you knock that cundango down a few pegs.”

“Twenty bucks and a sandwich?”

“Fine, you got a bet, asshole.  Get him to drink your peepee, I’ll go hungry at lunch again tomorrow.”

“Zane—“ I whisper.

“No, no, no!” Hiro mumbles.

“It’s time to show them what you are, without a shred of a doubt.”

He points his cock at my face.  Moments later, he starts to piss.

I close my eyes and whimper.  It runs down my face, reaching like sweaty fingers into my hair, little fingerprints greasing all over my body.

The others step in around me; their murmurs echoing into a growing commotion.  Damerae’s in shock.  Eduardo looks like he’s been punched.  Hiro glares at me.  Calvin bites his lip.  Chris shakes his head.

“Drink my piss, faggot,” Zane growls.

I open wide.

The piss digs past my lips.

Damerae growls.  “God, man.  I’m okay with you being gay—but this is something else.”

“He is something else,” Zane says.  “He’s a faggot.  A pussy punk bitch.  I don’t hear you gulping, coin.  Swallow.”

I remember when I wrestled Zane the other day, and when I tried to lift more than him today.  My defiance rises like fire. 

Zane knows just how to drown it. 

My wrists flex vainly.  Zane slaps my face.

I feel so powerless.  My sore balls itch.

I swallow. 

Harsh, relentless piss fills my mouth over and over.  It sounds like a shell covering my ear on the beach, refracting the sound of the ocean.

I look up at Zane.  His body is enveloped in darkness.  Rings of light outline his body, blinding me slightly.  I lean my head back like a prayer.  I gulp his addictive slices off piss down.  The glittering stream reaches out; extensions of Zane burrow into my mouth, my throat, my stomach.  He becomes a part of me.

“He is so--into it,” Damerae whimpers.

“He loves it,” Zane says.  “He loves me.  He worships me.”

When the stream ends, I lean in and suck the last drops out of Zane’s cock, moaning, accepting my fate—egging it on.  Zane slaps my face again.

“Did I say you could suck my cock, faggot?  Haven’t we been over this?” he asks, his green eyes glinting.  His muscles flex above me, glimmering in the shadows he casts.  One shadow I don’t recognize: a half-circle over his bulging pectorals.  It takes me a second to realize it is cast there from the bill of the mokimon hat.

“Sorry sir,” I say, my voice breaking.

“Show me how much you want it.”

I open my mouth and lean in, letting out a little noise.  Zane slaps my face again and a tear bleeds out of my eye.

“I love you, Zane,” I whisper.  I nuzzle against his body as I move towards his cock again.

“Get the FUCK off me, faggot,” Zane says, shoving me down with both hands. 

Master holds my head an arms’ length from his cock so I can’t get at it.

Zane pulls Calvin over, his lips brushing Calvin’s ear as he whispers into it.

Calvin’s in no position to argue if he wants to protect me.  It makes him as much as a slave as I am.

Calvin’s blue eyes shimmer.  I sense the wheels turning in it.

He gives me a solemn, broken look.    His defined swimmer’s build looms over me.  I can smell sweat in the air.

He points his dick at my face, grimacing.

His stream starts slow and builds quickly.  I open my mouth, lean my head back, and gargle Calvin’s slightly tamer piss down.

“What, Calvin is in on this too?” Eduardo asks.

“I had to pry Travis off Calvin’s dick this morning.  He just can’t get enough…so I figured—why not drown him in what he wants, then?” Zane smirks.  “What did you call it, Damerae?  Our little game?  Travis is about to test his luck.  Do you think he can handle six monsters?”

Six monsters—like mokimon.

Except they were the ones training me.



    Flip the coin, roll the dice
     Mimic or explore
     You can’t tell if the land is new
    Or ground you’ve tread before


What is it like inside the die?  Surrounded by six walls?  A turbulent prison of chance?

The walls of fate are unyielding.  Sad-stop-block.  That’s what I called my mind game, in this locker room, not all that long ago.

As Calvin’s stream thins, I lean in till my mouth encircles his pretty, smooth pink dick.  I swill from the source.  As the stream clears, I slurp out the last drops, then suck his dick till it is hard.

“Finishing what you started this morning?” Zane asks.

“Mmn,” I say, the noise buzzing around Calvin’s dick as I bob down on it deeper.

“Fucking puta,” Eduardo says, his voice soft.

I close my eyes, thinking of how Calvin’s lips felt on my dick earlier.  Like before, I move up and take him deep down my throat.  Slowly, his dick rolls in and out of my mouth.  I moan.  His warm meat shivers inside me.  I lose track of time as his warm, spongy dick teases my mouth.  It traces my lips, my tongue, and the corners of my mouth, making me drool.

My moans grow progressively higher.

“Listen to the fag squeal,” Zane says.  He turns to Calvin.  “You know, Chris tells me Travis doesn’t like the nickname ‘coin’ very much.  Odd, for that to be the thing you complain about.  What is it, Travis?  Are you afraid I’ll turn into a predatory lender?”

Zane pulls me off Calvin’s dick for a second.  Cool air stings my sticky face.  I look up at him, dazed.  “I don’t know Zane.”

Calvin, flustered near the edge, starts to jack his dick inches in front of my face.

“So what was Chris’s replacement nickname?  Honey-bun?  Pussy-muffin?”

“Painter,” I say, red-faced as ever.  “He said—what I did to him…was like making a masterpiece.”

Zane laughs loudly.  “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.  But anyway, it’s all backwards.  If anything, you are the work of art.  Look what we’ve done to you.”

I tremble.

“Calvin—why don’t you coat this cunt-face with a fresh layer?”

Calvin groans.

“Cum on his face, punk,” Zane growls.  He squeezes Calvin’s ass and Calvin grimaces.  Calvin drags his dick across my lip.  Zane holds my head away so I can’t suck the dick back in.  I whimper as Calvin’s balls draw up. 

Calvin laminates my face with fresh cum.  I catch some in my mouth and swallow, but most of it runs down my cheeks and nose like finger-paint.

“My slave’s dick is even harder than before.  It’s redder and blotchier than your face.” Zane says.

Zane twists my head.  The circle of men around me seems to spin.

Smaller frame.  Peach-brown skin.  Narrow features.  Nimble muscles.  Swirling black eyes.

Hiro.

“Think of how many times he beat you,” Zane says.  “Now he can’t seem to win at anything.”

“Hiro,” I whisper.

Zane is gambling.  He’s hoping to lean on his leverage, and transform the core into the fringe, outside-in.  Like dominoes, but bigger. 

Like a nuclear reaction.

Hiro turns to Damerae, his eyes uncertain.  “I—“

Zane cuts him off.  “How rude of me!  I never gave you a chance to make a bet.  Anything you think Travis wouldn’t do?”

Hiro shakes his head.

“Smart cookie,” Zane says.  “I know you don’t always feel you fit in here, Hiro.  I haven’t the slightest clue if you like me.  All I know is that Travis abandoned you.  He left you alone in your weight class, because he couldn’t be bothered to cut back on cheesecake or whatever.  Then he lost your Penrose Triangle Key-chain within a week of you giving it to him, after lying to you about it in the first place.  He’s nothing close to the person you thought he was.  You have every right to be pissed.”

Hiro’s cheeks are a deep shade of red.  I wouldn’t have expected him to be so affected by a few embarrassing comments.

“You always thought you were so special, Travis,” Hiro says softly.  “Aloof.  Emotional.  Rebellious.  You go out of your way to stick out.”  He stands crooked.  Calvin moves over beside him, acting as a crutch so he can move without wobbling.

Hiro grabs the back of my head, tilting it back so I can see the anger etching his face.

We are at the brink of critical mass—I can sense it.

“How did I lose to THIS?” Hiro whispers, the anger morphing to disgust. 

“Open up for him,” Zane says, mirth in his voice.

I open my mouth, lull my tongue out, and half-close my eyes.

“It’s hard to imagine him beating anyone when he’s like this,” Zane says.

Hiro’s dick plumps up in spite of himself.

Hiro, who just tried to protect me, but is now twice as bitter for it.

He’d been my best friend since Calvin abandoned me, after middle school—which wasn’t saying much.  I just wasn’t meant to have friends, was I?

“Do it Hiro,” Zane says.

Hiro’s face is beet-red, his eyes are glossy.

“I tried not to be a part of this, Travis.  But you never seem to cut your losses.  You brought this upon yourself.”

Hiro points his dick at me.  The menacing red head dominates my visual field. 

Hiro releases his stream.  My stomach grumbles, unprepared for what will follow.  I swallow Hiro’s piss down as best as I can, spitting some up despite myself.

As he finishes, the look in his eyes sharpens.  He grabs me by the hair, glaring. “The nail that sticks out is the one that gets hammered down.”

His angry-looking dick fills my mouth in sloppy waves.  The moment engulfs me—I lose track of time and space.

Hiro’s cum cements my face.

The chain reaction begins; the balance shifts; the majority’s reality-cast framework redefines.

I feel Zane tighten his grip on my hair, twisting me again.

“Want a turn?” Zane asks, grabbing my head and pointing it one person down.

Light gold-brown skin.  Saltier smell.  Lithe muscles.  Cocky stance.  Dark eyes.  Curling smile.

Eduardo.

He rubs his cock all over my face.  “I can’t believe you drink piss, cundango.  I can’t even…”  His voice trails off, his cock plumping in his palm.  “Get your puta mouth open.”

His cock is uncut, like Zane.  I can see he hasn’t cleaned it in a while.

I open up my mouth and Eduardo fills it with sour piss immediately.  He bursts out laughing.  “Maricon.  This is fucking unbelievable!  I TOLD YOU, Damerae.  He ain’t one of us.  Look at this bitch.”  When the stream ends, he slaps his cock against my face.  “Clean my cock, cundango.  Get all that piss and smegma.  I know you want it.”

I suck the last drops of piss down, and swirl my tongue under the hood of his cock.  It tastes like bad meat.  I feel a little sick.  I groan.

“I think he likes it,” Zane says.

“Of course he likes it,” Eduardo says, bouncing on his feet.  “I shoulda got you swinging on my cock a long time ago, cundango.  It’s where you fucking belong.”

He pushes his cock across my tongue, dragging Hiro and Calvin’s cum around as it moves.

“Mamapinga,” Eduardo says.

Layers of cum and piss stick on my face and in my hair, while clumps roll down in swirling beads.  I close my eyes as they sting.  Eduardo doesn’t wait for me to recover.  He just stabs my lips and mouth with his cock over and over and over, laughing.  Zane’s chuckle joins the echoes.

“This is what you exist for, isn’t it?” Eduardo says.

Zane grabs my head and shoves me down balls-deep on Eduardo’s salty, meaty rod.  “Admit it faggot.  You never thought you would suck Eduardo’s cock.  You believed you had standards.  But the fact that you don’t—that you are the fucking team whore—turns you on, doesn’t it?”

“Mmmn,” I whimper.

Eduardo rubs his cock all over my face, pushing Hiro and Calvin’s cum around and feeding it to me.

I swallow the sweet and sour mix down.  I suck Eduardo’s cock in deep, swirling my tongue around and tightening my throat.

“Fuck,” he growls.  “I’m cumming, cundango,” he whimpers.

Zane pulls me off and Eduardo’s thick, grey cum plasters my face--in what feels increasingly routine.

Everything washes together.

Zane twists my hair again.

Thick muscles.  Dark brown skin.  Soft brown eyes.  Matted hair.  Crooked smile.

Damerae.

“I don’t know about this,” Damerae says softly.  “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Oh come on, Damerae,” Zane says.  “Don’t be cruel.  The faggot wants it.  Isn’t that right, coin?”

“Yessir,” I say softly.

“Ask him for his piss,” Zane says.

“Please, Damerae,” I say softly.  “Put me in my place.”

“Everything about this is fucking disgusting,” Damerae says.

“When did you get so judgmental?” Zane asks.

“It’s not the gay stuff that bothers me,” Damerae says.  “I mean—that’s not something I want for me.  I’m not gay.  But I think you’ve crossed the line, past where you can just chalk my disapproval up to personal preference.”

“What are you trying to prove, Damerae?  That you aren’t gay?”  Zane pauses, chuckling.  “People are not inherently identified by what they do, which is situational anyway.  People are identified by how a group perceives them.  People are not so simple.  But they are made to seem simple.  Taught to act simple.”

“And what about Travis?  Isn’t he a person too?”

“Not anymore.”

“What if you are wrong?”

“Kiss his feet,” Zane says, glaring at me.  “Show him.”

I crawl over to Damerae, planting my face in his warm feet, swirling my tongue between his toes.

Zane crouches down beside me, spreading my ass cheeks apart.

The buttplug starts to slide out of my ass for all of them to see.   Zane slams it back inside.

“This BITCH has been wearing it all day.”

“Fuck,” Eduardo growls.

Zane stands and circles Damerae, stopping next to his ear.  “He wants it, Damerae.  Make it his lucky day.”

“C’mon, Damerae, everyone did it.  Even Hiro,” Eduardo says, clapping Damerae’s shoulder.

“Hiro has the alcohol tolerance of a bacterium,” Damerae mutters.

“Don’t you have to piss?” Zane asks.

“I can use a toilet,” Damerae says.

“What’s the difference?”

 “Toilets don’t stare at me like that.”

“So I’ll have Travis close his eyes.”

“I should get home,” Damerae says.  “My dad says I have to clean the chimney and the gutters.”

“Isn’t your daddy afraid you’ll jump off the roof again?”

“That’s the reason I have extra chores in the first place.”

“So let Travis finish you off—and he’ll do those things for you.”

“Let me get this straight—if I let him suck my cock—he’ll do my chores?”

“Yep.”

“C’mon, Damerae, don’t be the black sheep,” Eduardo says.  “I mean, you can be black.  Just not—sheepish.  I didn’t say that right.”

“What he means,” Zane says, “Is—don’t be the nail that sticks out.”

Damerae looks around, possibly searching for a voice of reason.

“Alright, alright,” Damerae says.  He grabs my hair and pulls me up.  “Here I go.”

My stomach turns.  I can’t take anymore.  Damerae’s piss floods the air and finds my lips.  I move in closer, and no one stops me this time as I take Damerae’s big black cock into my mouth.  I drink the warm piss directly from the source.  When I finish, I look up at him, my eyes fluttering.  His cock grows hard in my mouth, choking me.  When I gag, he starts to pull back, but I lunge forward, keeping him inside me.

“Fffuck,” he growls.

He finds my shoulders and forges little circles there.  I soften into him, sucking gently, running my tongue over the limber texture of his cock.  I make dragging waves with my mouth and throat. 

“Guess this isn’t too bad,” Damerae says softly.  He bucks into me. 

With one hand he massages the back of my head.  With the other, he strokes my chin, tilting my head toward him.  I close my eyes, remembering he said he didn’t like them.

“Go ahead and open them,” he says begrudgingly.

I open my eyes and look into his.

He flashes a half-smile.

He flexes and I relax into him, my rounded mouth and puffy lips and swirling tongue drawing him in and cajoling him to take over.

His big hands roam around my body, finding weaknesses and toying with them.  I whimper.

“He needs it rougher,” Zane says.

Damerae ignores Master, softening my body by caressing me until I can’t take it anymore.

“I’m close, Travis,” Damerae says softly.

Zane pulls Damerae off.  Seconds later, Damerae shoots his load all over my face.

Zane twists me again—and I know there’s only one person left.

Massive, bulging muscles scape his golden body.  I sense the softness of his fuzzy brown hair.  Some of it is matted down by water.  His firelit, amber eyes burn at the sight of me.  His mouth is expressionless, though.

Chris.

His long cock hangs down in front of him like a pendulum.

“I’m sick of trying to be nice,” Chris says, his eyes glinting. 

Zane is right to laugh at me.  Whatever masterpiece I thought I had—whatever dream I built up in the back of my mind—it had been desecrated, as had any religion on the wrong side of the biggest armory.  The wrong side of history.

“Being nice?  You might as well have left me to die.”

“So you are dead inside.  I guess that explains how after EVERYTHING—somehow, Zane is the one you love.”

The pain in his eyes is unmistakable.

Like he’s been the victim in all this.

“Fuck you, Chris,” I croak.

Chris grimaces, then starts to piss, not even bothering to aim.  The glimmering stream hits me on the chest.  I look into his eyes; he glares at me.

“Aren’t you going to try to drink it, bitch?” Chris asks.

I look at Zane, and he nods.

I move my head toward the stream, sticking out my tongue, looking up into Chris’s eyes.  He gyrates his cock in his fist, painting spirals on my face.  I try to catch it, but he keeps moving the stream, making it impossible.

“Come on mokimon boy,” Zane says.  “You gotta catch it all.”

I whimper.

Some gets in my eyes and I cringe.  Zane laughs and Chris points the stream at my mouth.  The warm syrup crosses my lips and finds my tongue.  My eyes bolt open.  Chris has the most powerful, sensual piss imaginable.  I swallow, careful to keep my mouth open.

How could I ever have loved Chris?  What a husk of a person.  There is nothing there to love.  Just a wound I misunderstood.  In the hollow of the love I once felt, something new seethes.

I hate him.

A pure, enriching revulsion crystallizes inside me.

I can still see the beauty in Chris’s body, but that’s all that’s left. 

A sense of safety swamps me—like a blanket wrapped around me.  I’m not really in love with anyone anymore.  Not the naïve, heart-wrenching, soul-in-a-fragile-glass- bottle kind of love, anyway.  And with my babyish notion of love gone, I’m invulnerable.  Love is no longer a feeling I own.  It’s just a word I can throw around—like the rest of me.

With my soul laid bare, quilted in calluses, I’m not terrified of losing my dignity, my status, my secrets, my—anything.

Because at this point—there’s nothing left.

I crawl closer to Chris’s cock but Zane prevents me from reaching it by tugging on the handcuffs.

As the stream weakens, Zane lets go of the handcuffs, letting me seal my fate.  I whimper, crawling toward Chris and holding my mouth open.  He catches my head in his hand, holding me inches away from his cock.

I whine.

“Beg for it, bitch,” Chris says.

“Please Chris.  Make me your cocksucker.”

Chris drags his cock against my face.  His balls swing into my lips and he lets me suck them.

“You like that?”

“I don’t love you anymore,” I whisper.  “I just love sucking cock.  So why don’t you fuck my faggot face?”

Chris growls and tightens his grip on my head.   With his other hand, he guides his big cock past my lips and into my mouth.

“At least these handcuffs make it so you won’t use your fucking hands.” Chris says.  The hot meat fills my mouth and stretches into my throat.  The warmth radiates in all directions, inflating me.  My muscles puff out and eventually soften.  I collapse forward into him and he pulls me in till his abdominals fiex amongst my eyes and his balls stick to my chin.

I gag; Chris holds me in place.

“You like choking on my big cock, don’t you bitch?” Chris asks.

I nod slightly, my eyes wide, and whimper.

He grabs me by the ears—the force along the earring tingles—I can feel the spark tracing my skin and lingering at my balls.  He pulls my head away and slams it back down on his cock.  He does this over and over, grunting as he uses my mouth and throat.  I suck on his sweet cockhead as it leaks.

Chris is relentless.  His big cock corks me as he rocks back and forth on my face.  Steam from the shower fills the room with mist, boiling with the smell of wrestling sweat.  I can smell Chris towering above me, covered in sleek sweat, and it makes me weak.

Chris pushes his big cock all over my face, feeding me the mix of cum that drips there.  I suck his cock into my cum-coated mouth and throat.  The big rod stretches me deep, plunging into me, drawing the old cum out of my throat and back into my mouth motion by motion.  I suck and lick at his big cock, slurping out the sweet taste and closing my eyes.

“Fuck yeah, bitch,” Chris growls, tightening his grip on my hair.

I whimper.  The motions of Chris’s long rod draw the old cum out of me like a plunger as I suck the new pissy precum out of his cock.

Zane pinches my earring and I close my eyes, sucking Chris’s cock like my life depends on it.

He shoves his cock deep down my throat, and I’m inundated by him.

“Cocksucker,” he growls, glaring at me, shoving me off.

“See what I mean?” Zane asks.  “If anything, this fag is my masterpiece.  Paint his face.”

Chris’s balls tense up.  I can see his cock expanding where my fate flows through it.  I open my mouth wide.  Shot after shot coats my face.  Some of it runs down.  I catch the last shot in my mouth and savor the sweet honey taste. 

I collapse on the floor, facedown.  Moments later, Zane sits on top of me, stroking my back and grabbing my ass.

“I’ll make sure he gets to your place, Damerae,” Zane says.  “He’s probably a little drunk.  He’s had about six beers-worth of piss, after all.”

“So—what now?” Eduardo asks. 

“Practice is over,” Zane says.  “That means you all can go.”

Calvin stutters.

“Yes, even you, Calvin.  I’ll call you tonight.”

With a hint of uncertainty, and a twinge of what might even be shame, they shuffle out of the shower.

“Don’t forget to get me the money you owe me tomorrow—you clowns.”

I lie in place, closing my ugly eyes, as the pitter-patter splash claps around me.

We can hear the scuffle as the others leave the showers, put on clothes, and disperse with a biting haste.

Their voices echo and then fade.

Eventually the only sounds are Zane’s breathing and the showers still running.

The incessant drip drip drip of the water; the slow gasps and sighs of Master blowing in my ear.

After a minute or so, I try to move, but Master flexes, pushing my head into the tile.  “Don’t make me force you to lick the floor again, faggot.”

“Yessir,” I mumble.

Zane starts playing with the plug in my ass, drawing it in and out slowly.  “You wish you had my cock, don’t you punk?”

My other senses come back slowly, and then seem to consume me.  “You deprived me all day, Zane.”

“Not anymore,” he mutters.  He spreads out my ass cheeks, ripping the plug out of my ass.

I gasp.

Then—he shoves the dirty butt-plug into my mouth.

“Did you like getting flooded, faggot?”

I squirm underneath him, gagging, sputtering, and choking.

With his other hand, he plugs my nose so I can’t breathe, and my eyes bug out.  I buck uselessly.

Calvin.  My old friend, who wasn’t there when I needed him.

Hiro.  My old wrestling partner, who resented the pearls of wisdom I’d squandered.

Eduardo.  The asshole, who always prickled my nerves.

Damerae.  The happy-go-lucky guy, who couldn’t believe what I’d become.

Chris.  The boy I loved, who left me for dead.

The bile rises in my throat.  The buckets of cum and piss.  The taste of my own dirty ass.

Zane pulls out the butt-plug, and I vomit all over the ceramic tile floor.

Slowly, it swirls amongst the shower water like marble, collecting around the drain.

“You don’t like throwing up, do you?” Zane asks.

I clench my eyes shut, shaking my head, and shuddering.

“Too much jock dick can do that to a fag.”

He flips me onto my back, then pins my legs into my chest so my ass points up at him.  I open my eyes, gaping, and Zane shoves the plug back in my mouth.

“Get it clean, coin.”

My eyes widen.  I obey, sucking the plug like a pacifier.

Zane aligns his fat cock with my open hole.

He looks at me, the green light in his eyes fracturing.  He raises his eyebrow, reaching one arm up, his bicep flexing as he grabs the bill of the mokimon hat.

Slowly, with a half-smile, he twists the hat so it is backwards.

Then, he slams his cock into my ass balls-deep.

My moan is muffled by the plug in my mouth.  As Zane forces his cock into my ass, he grabs the plug, sliding it in and out of my mouth in time with his battering hips.

“I own your holes, faggot,” Zane says.  “No more frivolous lending.  I’m sure we are both sick of that.”

I whimper, nodding.

Zane pulls the cleaned plug out of my mouth and shoves my face into his sweaty armpit.

“Lick it, cunt-face.”

I lap at his pit, slowly at first, then faster, drawing out his flavor and forcing it down.

Zane laughs.  “You are MY faggot from now on.  Do you understand?”

I whimper and nod as Zane mines my ass hard.

Zane wraps his arms around me, flexing, pounding my ass and spitting into my gaping mouth.

I swallow.

“Tell me how it is,” Zane says, slapping my face.

“You own my holes.  You own my body—my mind.  You own me.  I am your faggot—your slave.  And I worship you as a God.”

Zane hammers me.

“Cum for me, faggot,” Zane says.

I don’t have an ounce of resistance left.  My balls draw up.

“Fuck, Zane,” I whimper.  “Fuck!  God!  Fuck!”

My ass clenches around Zane’s cock over and over as the detonation nears.

“FUCK!”

My vision clouds—my perception levels.

It feels as though my whole body is bursting--exploding--into nothing.

My cum splinters the surface of my chest in all directions, like a web of scars.

My flexing ass pushes Zane over the edge and he pumps his load deep into my hole.

Zane smears my cum into his other armpit.  I lick it clean as we grow soft.

“Good boy,” he whispers, stroking my hair.  He pulls out of me slowly.  “Good boy.”

I nuzzle into him as shower water streaks his skin. 

Zane shoves my face into his crotch.  “You need to get in the habit of thanking me after I fuck you.”

“Thanks for teaching me a lesson.  Thank you--Master.”

I lick and kiss his balls and the base of his slimed-up cock.

Once I’ve cleaned his junk, he buries my face in his ass.

“My pleasure--faggot.”

I lick and lick and lick.



---
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Taste of Power, Part 20

Part XX


King of the hill.  Rise up, become the lord of the land, the most respected and powerful man there is.  But rise too far, and the Sword of Damocles falls.  Such is the paradox of power—the rise is both coveted and maligned.

Do culture-monkeys like Calvin want me to stand up for myself?  Does that mean I do everything they say?

Do people push during courtship partly to make sure their consort is strong enough to push back?  Or do they merely push to settle the status quo?

It seems to me, the pushing colonizes the ground rules.  I seek out a guy that pushes me, that stretches me, that flaunts ambitious proclivities with ambivalence to how it affects me.  I expect that guy to push me as far as possible, establishing the gulf in status between us like a rough negotiator, without making the arrangement untenable.

To me, eroticism is that gulf.

In this sense, Zane has achieved something outstanding.  He has negotiated me into a corner, into a place where he demands utter submission, where the gulf between us is infinite.

But he did so in a way that I have no interest in breaking the arrangement.  And thus the things that should have been deal-breakers—the disrespect, the social deviations—exist instead as dimensions of his total dominance over every aspect of what I am.

---

Mr. Andrews glares at my hat and points to the door.

Like last time I was sent out, I pass by the counselor’s office and head to the bathroom.  But this time, I don’t bother to wash my face.  There’s nothing I’m looking to clarify.

So I sit on a toilet with the stall door open, idling, staring into the mirror.

Minutes later, Zane enters.

“Glad to see me?”  He walks up, stands over me, and drops the wooden bathroom pass at his feet.

“Yes, sir,” I say, gazing up into his eyes.

Zane slams the stall door and locks it.  “Swell.  Mr. Andrews is starting to get pissy about my bathroom breaks.”  He swivels back to me, leans forward into my face, and grinds his pulped up, jean-clad crotch against my cheek.

I wait, motionless, with my mouth half-open.

“You want my cock, faggot?”

“Yes sir.”

“Beg for it.”

“Please, Zane,” I say.  My voice is monotone.  The whimpering, the whining I once engaged in—those now strike me as the embellishments of an attention whore.  The dedication Zane instills in me runs deeper.

When we are alone together, no showmanship is needed.

“Please, Zane, let me suck your cock.”

He shucks down his pants, grinding my face around in his smelly jockstrap.

“Please, Zane,” I repeat.  “Please.”

He pulls down the jockstrap. He wraps his palm around the base of his uncut corkscrew cock and drags it across my face, smashing it against my nose.  I smell traces of smegma and cum and piss, and my eyes roll back into my head.

“Lick my balls, cunt-face.”

I lap at his big, grungy balls, my tongue lolling out of my mouth.   My vision refocuses, and I gaze up into his piercing green eyes.

Between each lick, I croak one word.

“Please.”

“Please what?” he growls.

“Please--breed my cunt.”

“Which one?”

I grab his ass, burying my face in his balls and licking madly.

“Am I supposed to pound your cunt-face?  Or your faggot ass?”

“Fuck my face,” I breathe.

“What if I want some ass?”

“Then wreck my faggot ass.”

“Which is it?”

I kiss the shaft of his cock.

 He slaps my face.  “You are such a disgusting faggot.”

“Disgust and lust aren’t opposites, remember?” I whisper.

I lick his cock slowly from the base to the head, clamping down on it.  He slaps my face again, so hard that it stings.  “Did I say you could suck my cock?”  I nuzzle into him, brushing his shaft with my lips; he grabs my hair, pulling me back.  “Get off my cock, bitch.  Jesus.”

I look into his eyes again, tonguing the air between us.

He palms my mouth shut and I lick it slowly.

“You misbehaved this morning.  You can’t just suck on a random dong when you get horny.  Especially given that you will probably be eternally horny from now on.”

He pulls his hand away from my mouth.

“I don’t want anyone but you, Zane.”

“You can never ‘have me.’  You BELONG TO ME.  That means if I want to fuck you, I will.  But you can’t just demand my cock whenever your balls itch.”

I nod, licking my lips.

“Travis—are you familiar with the concept of flooding?”

I shake my head.

“Well the idea is, if someone is OBSESSED with something, they can be desensitized to it by being drowned in it.  It doesn’t always work, like in the case of addiction.  For instance, right now, you aren’t desensitized to me.”

I nod.

“But, take a fear for example.  What are you afraid of?  Really?”

“Uh—“

“Don’t be shy,” Zane says.  “First thing you think of.”

Chris, twisting the chain around my neck till I collapse.  Zane, holding me down, even with the bile rising in the back of my throat…

“Vomiting,” I say, turning red.  “I don’t like—losing control of my body that way.”

“I’m not surprised,” Zane says, gripping my neck.  “I am glad you learned to overcome your gag reflex for me--despite yourself.  That’s the sign of a worthwhile faggot.”

I nod, tonguing my lip.

He carries on.  “The idea of flooding is, you lock someone in a tank with a bunch of spiders, or whatever their fear is, and then, after they become terrified, the sensation of intrigue goes away.  It can work on food, too.  If someone eats so much of something they get sick off of it, they won’t like it anymore.  That’s why I have to ration myself, you see?  I can’t just say ‘yes’ to you every time, because you are too much of a faggot to know when to stop.  You’ll overdose.”

“I trust your judgment, Zane.  You know what’s best for me.”

“You’re loyal to me?”

“Yes.”

“And you are sorry about this morning?”

“Yes.  Of course.”

“That’s good.  You need to understand that I am your Master now.  Wherever you are.  Wherever I am.  Capiche?”

“Yes, master.”

He turns around, reaching back to pull my hair.  “Go ahead and eat my ass, faggot.  You’ve earned it.”

I bury my face in his dank ass, sniffing and licking and sucking.

His ass cheeks push out and envelop me as he emits a slow, hissing fart.

I breathe in his flavor, my superfluous dick hard as a rock.  I know better than to move.  Instead, I keep tonguing his hole, as Zane’s potent essence locks down my senses.

Zane roots out my exceptional ability.  Not a power, exactly, but a tolerance for degradation matched only by his lust for it.  He can flood me as much as he wants.

And that may be the only sense that a zero like me is worthy of a God like him.

I lick his ass again and again as he wrings the back of my hollowed out faggot head.


---


Throughout the day, the rest of my teachers let me wear the hat.  The plug barbs my ass, distracting me constantly.  At one point between classes, Master grabs my ass and I freeze, biting my lip.

He hadn’t let me get off, and worse, he hadn’t let me get him off, so my brain is fritzing out.

He lets go of my ass and smirks as I hang my head.

By the time wrestling practice rolls around, I feel so edgy and exhausted and confused that I can barely stand up anymore.

“Travis?”

Deep, dark brown eyes.  Prominent cheek-bones, one lined with a subtle scar.  Frayed, long corn-rows of hair.  Chocolate skin.  Greasy muscles, whose sheen takes on a natural glare at the crown of each hill.

Damerae.

I stare decidedly at my own feet.

“Travis,” he says again.  “During the pledge this morning—Cynthia thought she heard you say you pledge to—the wrong thing.  You were just trolling Mr. Andrews again, right?  Like with that hat and earring?”

“Who knows, bro,” a coquettish voice says.  I look over.  Toothy grin, sinewy tan skin, a new tattoo on his shoulder—of a shark.  His first ink, to my knowledge.  Eduardo whistles.  “He can’t even look at you, bro.  Is it because you think he’s hot stuff, cundango?  Or did he hit a nerve?”  Eduardo laughs, pushing me.  “I asked you a question, stupid.”

“Come on, Lalo,” Calvin says from across the room, reviving an old nickname.  “Why do you smother Travis with so much attention anyway?  What’s it to you?”

“Because there’s a hen in the cockhouse.  He’s out of his element.  I’m still getting used to pretending that he’s one of us, bro.  Fucking sue me.”

“Language, Eduardo.”  Coach looks over at us from the edge of the row of flockers.

“Sorry coach,” Eduardo says, backing off of me with his hands up.

“Alright, clowns,” Coach barks.  “Break up by weight class. I have some health and wellness quizzes to grade in my office.  Then I gotta get out of here early for my daughter’s dance rehearsal.”  He glares at my earring and hat, but decides not to press the issue, maybe because Eduardo had grilled me enough.  He looks especially grumpy today.

Usually Coach sidestepping means that the head of each weight class leads activities.  Calvin and I share a look, unsure if we should congregate around Chris or not.

Master rounds the corner, sneering at us, dropping his subdued conversation with a downcast Chris, who is keeping a cold distance.  “Eduardo, go get Hiro.  You will be working out with us today.”

Chris wrinkles his lip.  He looks beat—worn down—like he slept less than I did.  He doesn’t raise an argument.

It doesn’t surprise me that Eduardo jumps at the chance to be a part of our group.  Like Master said to me this morning—it is common knowledge that Master Zane’s in another league.  It’s an honor to be with him.

To serve him.

God.  Just looking at him makes me salivate.

I look away.

Eduardo returns with Hiro moments later, who gives me a searching look.

“Coach hardly lets Travis wrestle during practice anymore,” Zane says.  “Let’s change that.  Let’s give him a treat.  Don’t bother putting on singlets.  Or shirts.”

Eduardo scowls at him.  “I’m not touching the cundango without my shirt on,” he spits.  “I don’t want him to blow his wad on me.”

Zane slams Eduardo into the wall.  “If I say no shirts, it means no shirts.  If he grabs your balls, then punch him in the face again.  He needs to learn how to keep his shit under control if he wants to be capable of helping our team at the meet.”

“Chill out, Zane,” Damerae grumbles.

“I’ll chill out when we are the best team in the state.”

Time crawls as we walk down the long hallway from the locker room to the room with the mats.

Zane pairs us off and rings the bell.

It’s difficult to stay in control with a bunch of sweaty, muscular, handsome boys flexing into each other—and me.

Master keeps barking advice, admonishment, and in my case, insults.  “C’mon, Travis.  Don’t take such obvious pleasure in being a loser.  This is the wrestling mat, not the bedroom.  Keep your priorities straight.”

With their constant teasing adding up, and the plug still prickling my ass, it’s getting difficult to control my breathing.

But I focus.  Despite Zane’s gibes, I pin Hiro, get Eduardo in a lock, and somehow pull Calvin’s legs over his head.  My match with Damerae is close, but Zane declares Damerae the winner.

Damerae insists that I move up anyway.

My heart slows; I line up against Chris.  Is that pain in his eyes?  Perhaps--just a reflection of mine in his?

His soul flays my armor.

He awakens something in me.

I once simpered when I saw him.

I was naïve enough to mistake Robin Hood’s ambush for Cupid’s charm.  Chris didn’t merely wound.

He fooled.  He stole.

The arrow prickles me still.

Why did I ever let myself become vulnerable for him?  What had I thought I saw?

And why…Why…WHY!

Does it still hurt?

Chris has weakened me, and Zane has finished me.

Chris and I basically never wrestle.  It became obvious why in no time at all.  Chris is more than strong.  He is an artist of strength.

He has lost his pedestal in my mind, but that memo never makes it all the way down to my dick.

In fact, the movement to keep him in power seems to stem from there.  To flourish there.

I didn’t get boners during wrestling.  Except…maybe…this once.

Everything stupidly perfect about him—his chiseled, focused face—his big, blossoming muscles—his nimble hands—the ensnaring scent--all of him conspires harmoniously to pin me down.

There is no chance for me.

None at all.

I’m pinned.

It’s hard to look at him.  To think about him.

The fear that once strangled me has migrated.  I used to shake when I saw him.

But I’m learning to let the fear in.  To let it flood over me.

To let it be a crucible.

Where I’m headed—there’s no coming out the same.

And that’s alright.

I am a fuck-up anyway.

Boned up and pinned, I stare into Chris’s eyes.

Zane prods my face with the sole of his bare foot.   “Alright, clowns, get some water.”

The others head off to the water fountain on the opposite side of the room. I hear Eduardo’s fading voice as he gives Chris beef for letting his hair fall in wavy bangs today.  “That’s some shampoo commercial shit.”

I turn to Master.

“Sir…I am afraid Eduardo’s prediction will come true.  Please—don’t make me cream myself in front of everyone.”

Master Zane blows a little spit bubble, breaking it with his middle finger.  Then he rubs the spit over my lips.

I stand in place.  We’re on the other side of the room as the others, with my back toward them, so they probably can’t make out what’s going on.  If they happen to be looking this way.

But—fuck…

“Lick your lips, faggot.  There’s lots to be excited about.”

He saunters over to the others.

I ball my fist.  I might as well get a bit of water myself.

Slowly, I lick the spit off my lips.

“Football field!” Master Zane shouts, smirking.

Hiro and Damerae shrug at one another.  Master beckons for us to follow out the side door.

Master has us run the bleachers.  After a few cycles, my legs are killing me and the plug is slipping out of my hole.  I take my hat off to wipe my brow but Zane slams it back down on my head.  His mouth steams my ear.  “Don’t take it off, faggot,” he growls.  He twists it around so it is facing backwards.  “In mokimon, the trainer takes care of six animals and the magic balls that control them.  I’m going to show you what happens when you play with monsters.”

Is that how he saw it?  He was training us like mokimon?

He reaches into my pocket, blowing hot air into my ear as he gropes me through my work-out clothes.  “Don’t lose too much control, faggot.”  Zane releases me and I run up the bleachers again.

Eduardo catches his breath, glaring at Zane.  “Zane, bro.  We almost done?  Practice shoulda got out by now.”

“There’s still a little bit more,” Zane says, leering.  “We have—a competition, back in the weight room.  It should be just about empty now, don’t you think?”

It would have to be.  Coach frowns upon betting.  It came to a head when Eduardo pulled a muscle trying to keep up with Zane a few months back (and lost twenty bucks and a sandwich).  It’s against the rules anyway.   Coach can’t really stop the friendly rivalries, but Zane has a way of stretching limits.

We cross the field, the wind making me shudder.

Eduardo tries the door.  Then he bangs his fist against it.  “Good going, Zane!  Now we are locked out.  My bag is still in there!  Coach probably thought everyone left for the day.”

“I’m counting on it,” Zane says.

Zane pulls a lock-pick out of his pocket and casually manipulates the door, forcing it open.

“Coin,” Zane says, slapping my ass.  The plug vibrates slightly inside me and my face contorts.  “Check to see if Coach is gone, then meet us in the weight room.”

 “Yes, sir,” I say, jumping to attention.    I turn red.  I hadn’t meant to use that word in front of the others.

“Damn,” Eduardo says.  “You have him trained like a bitch.”

“He is what he is,” Zane says.

I don’t argue.

I follow Zane’s orders.

The halls, the locker room, the showers, coach’s office—all eerily empty.

When I get back to the weight room, Zane is loading up the dumbbell.

He promises a prize to the person that can lift the most, moving up incrementally in sets of ten reps each.

I surprise myself by outlasting Hiro, Eduardo, and Calvin, but I hit a roadblock in my mind once the weights get over one hundred and sixty.  People in our weight class weigh that much!  It’s always seemed like a physical abomination—animals lifting more than their own weight.

An ant can carry a leaf ten times bigger than itself.

But insects make my skin crawl.

I spread out flat on the bench, willing my dick to stay soft, begging my mind to think about anything but the guys standing around me.

I can do it.  I can do ten reps.  I glare up at Zane.

“One.  Two.”

Every time a comet hits the Earth, it moves the world—if only slightly.

Small can move big.  It’s physically possible.

That’s not exactly how it works, is it?  Biology isn’t so much about physical reactions.

It’s chemical.

And that’s where the true power lies.

“Three.  Four.”

Zane hovers over me, spotting me, his cock and balls slipping around in his jock, which I glimpse, under his shorts.  I look up at him.  His tree tattoo grows high into the air above me; leaves dance as the shimmering canvas flexes beneath it, shifting the world like a rainy gust of wind.

The fire and ice of Zane’s yin-yang moon tattoo glint at me.

But the biggest distraction is the faint smell of him.

I can do it.  I can do the ten reps.  I glare up at Zane.

“Five.  Six.”

He leers at me.

Each push burns my muscles; in my mind I hear them screaming.  But the little voice in the back of my head has got me this far.

There’s honor in trying when you still have a chance—but there’s an entirely different honor in trying when you don’t.

A rebellious brand that purges and frees the tempted heart.

“Seven.  Eight.  Nine.”

Master reaches down and grazes my neck.

Blood congregates in my dick.

Fuck!

My confidence levels like a house of cards.

My arms wobble; what I am floods back.  I’m not one of them.  I’m not.

I’m a faggot.

I’m nothing.

I can’t lift anymore.  I whimper, and Master helps me re-rack the weight, smiling.

I collapse on one of the padded benches.  Calvin says something, but it doesn’t really register as I stare at the ceiling.

Damerae lasts a few more rounds, and then, it’s just Zane and Chris, lifting deep into the two-hundreds like it’s nothing.

At last, Zane throws in the towel, and we learn Chris’s prize.

Tickets to Cedar Point.

Zane had won them days before, he claims, for guessing how many M & Ms were in the counselor’s jar.  He didn’t seem to mind passing his spoils on, having advanced to more adult fare.

For whatever reason, it wasn’t the prize I had expected.

Zane smirks, seeming to read me.  “As for the rest of you—there is a consolation prize.  C’mon, you clowns.”

Zane saunters back to the locker room and we follow.  I sit on the locker room bench, still winded and dazed.  Zane clicks his locker open and pulls out a six-pack of beer.

“I borrowed this from your fridge this morning, Calvin.  Hope you don’t mind.”

“Should we?” Calvin asks softly.  “On school property?”

“Who cares?” Zane says.

“There are seven of us,” Damerae says, “but only six beers.”

“That’s alright,” Zane says, rubbing my head.  He chuckles, tilting my head up at his.  “Coin here doesn’t drink.  Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right sir,” I say.  I blush again.

“Seriously man,” Eduardo says.  “I was just joking before.  But are you, like—ACTUALLY--Zane’s bitch?”

“Well?” Zane asks.  “Are you, Travis?”

Everyone stares at me.

“Yes sir.”

“Maricon,” Eduardo spits.

“What the fuck, Zane?” Damerae says.  “What the hell did you do to him?”

Zane smirks wordlessly, passing out the cans one at a time.  The others stay standing, drinking in a circle around me.  Most of them look to be on edge, at least at first.  They aren’t really bad boys.  Sometimes with groups of people, especially around my age, a mob mentality can take root at the drop of a pin.

It’s not exactly that people who wouldn’t misbehave suddenly start to.  It’s more like the definition of misbehavior changes.  People like Chris behave the way they do, at least in part, because they trust in the power and safety of conformity.  Within a given group, that’s more or less what being ‘good’ is.  It’s just a matter of how widely people draw their circle of inclusion.

A good Earthling knows Men are created equal.  But the aliens in sci-fi films better keep to their own world if they don’t want their spaceships shot to hell.

A good all-American knows Americans deserve rights.  But the foreigners better stay out of the country if they don’t want to be thrown out on their asses.

A good jock knows Studs honor the bro code.  But the pussies better stay in their locker room if they don’t want to be popped.

Casualties are a fact of life, you see.  The kind of fact you either understand or fall victim to.

The moment passes, my qualms settling down.  People start to hand Zane their empty cans, red-faced from the workout and the wrong kind of hydration.

“Shower,” Zane says icily, stashing the empty cans in his pack.

Hiro finally gets a word in, sizing up Zane.  “Are you sure that Travis is—comfortable showering with the rest of us?  He does seem to avoid it, most of the time.”

“Oh, I’m sure he is comfortable,” Zane says, sliding his hand down my cheek and pinching the earring.  “He doesn’t mind at all.”

Damerae raises his eyebrows, but eventually the group starts to peel off their clothes.  I look away from them, finding my locker and stripping down with deliberate sluggishness, giving the others time to siphon off one by one to the showers.

Maybe I can shower after them, like Hiro said?

As soon as I am naked, Zane pulls me in, flexing around me, inundating me.  He’s so sweaty, I can barely breathe.

What do I do?  My thoughts drag like molasses.

He pins my head against the cold locker with one hand and massages my ass with the other.

 “Zane,” I whisper.  The others are already in the shower, I tell myself.  “Zane—“

I push my ass out toward him reflexively.

“What do you want, faggot?”

“When will you let me get off, Master?” I say, shaking in place.  Frustration courses through me.

He pads my ass, toying with me.  “Maybe never.”

He smashes my face up against the locker, stuffing his jockstrap in my mouth.  “Do you like that?  I bet you want me to fuck you right here.  But there’s a plug in your ass.  Too bad.  Guess you’ll just have to stay horny forever.”

I push my ass out toward him, but he ignores it, releasing me.  I try to hide my face as a tear rolls down my cheek.

As I turn my head, the jockstrap droops out of my mouth.

Somebody has doubled back from the shower, his face flushed, his mouth agape, and his eyes brightly staring—stunned—at my pathetic, true form.

Hiro.

Does he understand?

I’m Zane’s cunt-face.

Hiro is dumbstruck, but he shouldn’t be.  

It’s simple now:

Chris and Calvin are toys of the past.

I am nothing.

Zane is everything.

Everyone knows I am his pussy punk bitch.  I don’t fight it anymore.

Frankly, I was a fool to fight in the first place.

I’m his faggot.

Fucking sue me.



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My condolences for the delay.  It's been busy, including an epic computer crash.  :/.  Anyway, feel free to send me a line:
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