Taste of Power, Part 25

Disclaimer:  Don't do anything stupid, this is a krazy story, not a how-to manual, etc.  If in doubt about things, I find it always helps to ask.
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Part XXV



Einstein said the greatest genius of his era was Jean Piaget.

Jean Piaget studied people over different phases of their life.

Piaget’s found that growing up isn’t a progression; it isn’t like stacking slides on an overhead projector till you see the whole picture.

People, during different phases of their life, look at the world differently.  Logic means something different.  They have different ideas of what matters, about what is worth focusing on.

In this sense, people are more like different versions of themselves nested inside one another.

Like layers of rock in a mountain.

And when a drop of water hits the peak, it’s the slightest nudge that decides among the web of potential divergent paths.  Paths that call on different snapshots of history, and cook up their own realities with them.

People are not built to understand what they used to be.  Even if they can regress at a moment’s notice.

People are certainly not built to understand what they will become.  Even if the progression is imminent.

As a consequence, open-mindedness isn’t just about accepting different people, but about accepting different versions of yourself.



---



“Did you enjoy your movie?”

Zane asks the question softly, standing in nothing but his jockstrap, his muscles carving out shadows that streak in little canals from the doorway he opened.

I gape at him.  Perhaps due to my promise not to warn him, or my shock, or my lack of initiative, I’m unable to get out any words.

“Sure did,” Brett says, turning and springing to his feet.  The coffin door starts to tremble and whine in the corner of the room, and then several things happen in a chaotic storm.

Zane retreats back, twisting to flee; Brett slams him into the cabinet before he can escape.

Calvin tries to climb out of the coffin; but I barrel over to it, throwing myself on top of it, jamming it shut.

The snake rake falls to the floor, clinking against the cement.  The handcuffs drop moments later, splaying out just to the side of the lock pick.

“What are you doing??” Calvin asks, his voice muffled.  “What the HELL?”

Across the room, Zane and Brett’s scuffle has migrated to the floor, with Zane squirming underneath Brett’s mammoth form.  A fully-fledged, muscle-bound college student is giving Zane hell.  Brett’s a bit bigger and a bit more sophisticated and it’s making for a stacked fight.

I reach down, grappling for the handcuffs, and shackle the coffin door shut.  Then I trudge to my feet, stealing a glance back as Calvin pounds vainly against the coffin door.  The cuffs strain but hold fast, giving Calvin a tiny window into what’s happening.

“Travis—help!” Zane growls.

“This is your chance,” Brett says, sounding about half as winded.  “Use the rope.  Let’s tie him up.”

“He’s hurting me,” Zane says.

“Shut the fuck up,” Brett whispers.

I stand over them for a fraction of a second, gathering myself as I sink to my knees.

I feel the draft in my fingertips.

The wind can blow a single drop of rain this way or that.

Deciding the way the stream will rise.  Deciding the way the avalanche will fall.

The course of the future in the palm of my hands.

I feel the chill spread through my body.

I push Brett off Zane with all my strength.

He budges slightly, which is all Zane needs to wiggle free.

“What are you doing, Travis?” Brett says, his eyes bulging.

I grab Brett’s arm; Zane grabs the other; we thrust our combined weight on top of him.

“Travis.  Think about what you are doing!”

I stare blankly at him.

“No…” he says, his voice fading.

We ram his shoulders to the floor.

“Travis!”

Zane leans forward and gives Brett a soft kiss on the lips, shocking him into silence.  Then Zane draws back, leering at him.  “Good to see you, Wombat.”

“Can’t say the same.”

“How about I flip you onto your stomach?  Then you can avert your eyes.”

Brett isn’t easy to work with, but his advantages over Zane have become immaterial with me in the mix.

We pin him to his stomach.

“Jab your knee into his neck so he can’t move,” Zane says, who presses his legs into Brett’s thighs.

I shove my knee into Brett’s neck, making him sputter, holding onto his wrists.

Zane ties them tight.

“Hold him there.”

I curl up on top of Brett’s back.

Zane scowls down at Brett, letting the silence wash over, before finally letting out a laugh.  He prods Brett’s face with his foot.  “So was this the plan, Wombat?”

Brett closes his eyes.

Zane pouts and turns his head.  “Is that Calvin over there in the corner?”

The coffin is shut now.  It sits stationary, silent.

Zane whistles, waltzing over to it and dragging it towards the middle of the garage by the cuffs, his biceps bulging to their limits, with Calvin bouncing around inside.

“Dumbasses.  What’ll it take?”  Zane turns to me.  “Grab Wombat by his legs.”

Tingles course through my body.  I’m light on my feet.

I clench Brett’s legs and Zane pulls on his hair as we lift him into the air.

“On top,” Zane says, nodding, and we slam Brett down on the coffin lid containing his little brother.

“Please,” Brett says softly.  “Travis… please.”

“It’s me you should be begging,” Zane says, tapping Brett on the cheek.

“What are you going to do?”

Zane smiles, turning away from Brett and focusing his icy eyes on me.  “Strip down.”

I peel off my pajamas, tossing them in a heap.  The garage air is stale, but still a bit cold.  Goosebumps grow along my arms.

“Faggot pussy position,” Zane says.

I sink to the floor, bow my face to the cement, and jut my ass into the air.

“Crawl to me.”

I crawl forward slowly till my face is buried in Zane’s feet.

Zane waits, letting Brett soak in the scene.

My locked lips tremble as I swallow back my own drool.

“Kiss my feet, cundango.”

I open my mouth, planting my wet lips on Zane’s foot, closing softly, sucking and tonguing up the grungy taste.  I roll my tongue between his toes, my lips making smacking noises as I root out all the flavor.

Zane pulls me up by the hair, forcing me to look past his bulging black jockstrap, his sweat-stricken, heaving muscles, and into his piercing green eyes.

“You’ve been a good bitch,” Zane says, thumbing my chin.

“Thank you, master,” I say.

“Go ahead and improvise a bit,” Zane says, inflating his chest out and leaning back into Brett’s legs.

There’s no greater reward than this.

I press my face into fabric surrounding Zane’s balls, nuzzling into them.  Then I lock my mouth around the imprint of his cock, slowly ratcheting up the intensity of my sucking lips.  I savor every second I get to fawn over his cock and balls.

I move to pull down his jockstrap, but Zane bats my hand away.

“Later.  I promise,” Zane says.  “Right now, I’ve got to plant my flag in some new territory.”

“No,” Brett says weakly.

“Yes,” Zane says.

“You—you wouldn’t.  Not without my say-so,” Brett says.

“Don’t be presumptuous.  It’s a bad color on a faggot.”

“I’m not a faggot!”

“Neither was your brother.  Supposedly.  Before I turned him.  I bet you’ll be even easier.”

“You want a bet?” Brett asks. “Really?”

“Nah.”

“I--I’d bet you can’t even make me hard,” Brett says softly.

“Well…fuck, Brett.  What do you have to offer me?”

“Cooperation.”

Zane taps his fingernails on the coffin.  “And if I were to lose?”

“You let me go.”

“I’ll give you seven minutes,” Zane says, rubbing Brett’s shoulders.

Zane flip Brett onto his back.

THUMP.

“No touching my dick, ass, or mouth,” Brett says, his voice wavering.  “Nothing gross, nothing that hurts.”

“It strikes me that you are in no position to make rules,” Zane says, pulling off Brett’s shorts and boxers.

A sizeable flaccid dick plops into view, draping over Brett’s balls.

“My rules or no bet,” Brett says.

“Rules won’t save you.”  Zane unlocks his phone, handing it to me.  “Coin—start the fucking timer.”

My ass clenches around the plug as his fingers graze mine.  I gape at my Master, then at the faggot I know he’ll soon break.

I start the timer.

A moment later, Zane straddles Brett’s chest, feeling up his pectorals.  “You’ve been working out.  Must be frustrating to be in this position.  All your hard work…for nothing.”

Brett glares at Zane, sparks darting across his eyes, his lips shut tight.

Zane pinches Brett’s nipples.  Brett juts out his chest and grates his teeth.

Mirth dances in Zane’s eyes as he rides his way up Brett’s bulging chest, grinding his jock-clad crotch into Brett’s protruding muscles.

He prods Brett’s chin with his package, cradling Brett’s head in his hands.  “So, how big does your dick get, when you are hard?”

“Eight inches.”

“Let’s go with seven again.  You seem like the exaggerating type.”

“There’s a ruler in the cabinet,” Brett whispers, scowling.

I go to fetch it, finding it in the second drawer next to the tape.

“Feeling anything yet?” Zane asks.

Plain resolution stares back up.

Zane takes a look at Brett’s dick, and I follow his gaze.  It hasn’t moved.

“I really don’t do anything for you?” Zane asks, undulating slowly.

“You’re a filthy, arrogant monster,” Brett says evenly.  “Your lot doesn’t last in college.  In life.”

Zane laughs.  “It must be embarrassing…being a COLLEGE STUD—at the mercy of a bratty, dirty high school boy.  What are people going to say when you tell them you spent the weekend getting owned and fucked by a grade-school hooligan?  Probably that your slutty bottom-boy ass took advantage of an innocent, doe-eyed minor.  I just stumbled into this situation, after all.”

Zane’s eyes grow saccharine and big as he bites his lip, massaging Brett’s thighs.

Brett squirms.  “Tickles a bit,” he whispers.  But Brett’s dick remains stubbornly soft.

“How much time gone?” Zane asks.

“A couple minutes,” I say.

Brett finally cracks a half-smile.

Considering the circumstances, he seems downright lively.  “Not much to show for, Zanebrain.  Perhaps it’s time for constructive criticism?  Your tattoos are weird, your hair is a disgrace, and you need a shower.  Oh, and you are a self-absorbed asshole.”

“I suppose I could switch up my strategy,” Zane says shrugging.   “Coin!  Get over here.”

I hurry to Zane’s side.  He dismounts from Brett’s chest.

“Your turn,” Zane says, taking the phone I was using as a timer.

“What is this?” Brett says, his brow furrowing.  “Zane!”

I crawl on top of Brett, balancing on the coffin lid with my knees on either side of him, my head level with his chest, breathing slowly.

“Kiss his nipple,” Zane says.  He must notice the plug slipping out of my ass, because he rams it back in.

I lower my face into Brett’s big chest, tonguing his nipple once before closing my lips around it with a smack.

“Shit!”  Brett says, bucking.

“Hmm,” Zane says.  “Now we are getting somewhere.”

I drag my tongue along his chest, dipping into the valley between his pectorals, finding his other nipple.

“TRAVIS!” Brett breathes.  “Travis…please…Think about what you are doing!”

“Go ahead and think about it,” Zane says.  “How long have you wanted to do this to him?”

“Since—the day—washing—the Mazda.  Four—years.”

“And what happened that day?” Zane asks.

“Wet shorts—wanted inside.”

“But he never had the INITIATIVE.  He never took CONTROL.  You would’ve been a fag for him in a second.  All that potential—just fizzled away.”

“Mmm,” I whisper.

“Six inches and change,” Zane muses.  “I do hope you weren’t exaggerating too much.”

“TRAVIS.  I’m begging you—help me.  Please—help me.”

With Brett’s arms tied behind his back, his bristly, dewy armpit is exposed inches from my face.

Zane grabs my head and pushes it inside.

I lap greedily at the oasis, rooting my head around.

“FUCK!” Brett says, bucking out again.  “Travis…no,” he whines.  “Oh God, no…”

“Eight inches even,” Zane says.  “Guess you were being honest.  I’m disappointed.  You didn’t even make this EXCITING for me.”  Zane sighs.  “Alright, go ahead and get down now, coin.”

I slide off of Brett, crouching down to the floor.

“And that means—you have to cooperate with my rules,” Zane says.  “Which are a bit different.” He grips Brett by the dick, flipping him over again.

“No—fuck—god no,” Brett says, worming away from Zane.

Zane pushes Brett’s face into the coffin with one hand while massaging his ass with the other.  “This is a fantastic ass, by the way.  So—voluptuous.”

Brett tries and fails to wiggle out from under him.  “GET THE FUCK OFF!”

“But you said I could,” Zane said, moving his other hand down, biting his tongue, and kneading Brett’s ass with both hands.  “A bet’s a bet.”

“FUCK THAT!”

“You made a promise Brett.  What would your parents say, seeing you break your word?”

“They’d rather see that…than see their son sodomized.”

“What century are you from?” Zane asks.  He spreads Brett’s ass, eying his hole.  “You promised cooperation.  I don’t like people who aren’t good for their word.  If you are so religious, where is your sense of honor?”

“Calvin’s the honorable one.  Get off.  Get off.  GET OFF.”  His eyes grow wet.

“I will.  In a manner of speaking,” Zane says.  “You are acting pathetic.  It’s not my fault you lost.  I mean, kind of.  But it’s your fault too.  You should feel very stupid right now.”

“Travis,” Brett whispers.

Zane slaps his face.  “SHUT UP.”

“Travis,” Brett whines again.

Zane grabs Brett by the neck, who makes a hacking noise.

“Zane—please,” I say.  “Please—don’t hurt him.”

“Why the fuck not?  What do you think he would have done to me?”

“I don’t know.  He didn’t say.”

Zane releases his hold on Brett.  “What would you have done, Wombat?  What was your carefully laid PLAN, the one that took all of ten seconds to turn on its head?  What were you going to do to me?”

“We just wanted to scare you—honest,” Brett says, his voice cracking.  “We were just going to knock some sense into you.  I didn’t want to hurt you.  I just wanted to scare you.”

“With a bunch of old Halloween junk?” Zane spits, kicking the coffin.  “What, do you still think I’m five years old?  I don’t believe that for a SECOND.  Travis, he just wants me to take it easy!”

I look from Brett to Zane.  I crawl back to Zane and lick his foot, then look into his eyes.  “Please, master.  Don’t hurt him.  Please…”

Zane laughs.  “What?  You want to take over his punishment?”

“Sure,” I say softly, kissing Zane’s ankles.

Zane turns to Brett.  “Aren’t you too NOBLE to let this happen?  Your brother would never let this fly.”

“I already told you, Calvin’s the good one, not me.  Go ahead and punish Travis, see what I care.  He’s not even his own person.  He’s more like a fucked up prosthetic that you own.  A fabricated pile of flesh and bone and muscle that you move with your mind, that does whatever you want.”

“Is that true, coin?” Zane asks.

“Yes Zane,” I say softly.  I take a moment to suck on Zane’s toe, and he raises his foot slightly to egg me along.  “Sometimes I think my own thoughts.  But I’m trying not to, Master.”

“A fucked-up prosthetic.  You make him sound so—redundant,” Zane says.  “I’ve always fashioned myself a minimalist.”

“A poor boy,” Brett spits.

Zane smirks.  “So—Travis.  In terms of punishment.  How about I cut off your balls?”

The plug prods my ass.

I look up at Zane and he looks down at me, our eyes boring into one another.

Then I shake my head.

“No?” Zane asks.  “Hmm.  Probably for the best.  You might be less fun without that little hormone factory.  How about a toe then?”

A toe.  Jesus.

Every rational, impulsive, or self-centered node of my brain screams at me.

But another voice whispers too.

Ten toes…that really is a lot.  Do I really need all of them?

Do I really need anything?

I’ll still have plenty.

I find myself nodding.

“What the hell?” Brett gasps.

“You still fine with him taking your beating?” Zane asks.

“You aren’t going to go through with it.”

“Is that a CHALLENGE?” Zane asks, leering.  “Are you egging me ON?  Travis, go get a butcher’s knife.  And duct tape, while you are at it.”

Brett’s eyes flash.  “You really think you’ll get away with this?  People will know it was you, you’re the only one crazy enough to do something like this.”

“I can make Travis say it was his idea.”

“Then they’ll lock you both away,” Brett says.

“And yet—that won’t make you unsee the things you’ve seen.”  Zane leans in to Brett’s ear.  “You might get nightmares.”

Brett shakes his head as I leave for the kitchen.  I return back to silence, lay the tape and knife down at Zane’s feet, and close my eyes, focusing on my breathing.

Does he plan to tape the wound shut?

Wouldn’t he be better off cauterizing it?

Shivers course through me.

“STOP!” Brett says.  “Stop,” he repeats slowly.

I sneak a peek.  Zane’s brandishing the knife, inches from my feet, a manic expression flooding his face.

“Now or never,” Zane says.

“F--fuck me,” Brett says.

“What was that?” Zane asks.

Brett glares at him.

“FUCK ME.”

“That’s more like it!  Travis, duct-tape his mouth shut.”

I slowly rise, clutching the tape.

It makes a honking noise as I peel it off the roll.  I rip a strip free.  Then, I press it over Brett’s lips, rubbing it into place.

“Get him ready,” Zane says.

I move cautiously towards Brett, my heartbeat thumping.  Zane rolls his eyes, grabbing the back of my head, guiding me roughly into Brett’s voluptuous cleavage.

At first I taste a hint of sweet body wash, but I push through that and into the masculine, salty, swamp of Brett’s ass.  He keeps it cleaner than Zane, but there’s no mistaking the traces of the kind of man that works out hard and parties harder.

I lick, slowly and softly at first, then rougher, getting inside the hole.  Heaven knows it needs to be stretched.

A high-pitched whimper escapes from Brett’s nose.


     Slaves built the greatest legacy
     The Oroboros line
     You can’t make heads or tails
     Of devils you divine


Calvin’s muffled, angry voice clamors from inside the box.

“Shut the fuck up in there!” Zane hisses, kicking the coffin again.  “One more word, and I swear, you’ll spend the rest of the day swimming in my piss.”

Calvin falls silent.

I tongue Brett’s hole.  His meaty, big-boy ass flexes and hugs my face.  This might be the strongest ass I’ve seen on a guy—thick muscle distends the skin in obscene spheres.

I lick and prod and nibble and kiss.

I NEVER thought I’d get the chance to taste Brett.

I feel the grip of Master’s fingers on my hair as he forces me to the surface.

“Enough, faggot.”

My tongue lolls out.  Zane heaves me toward the floor, and I swivel, facing them, before sinking back into faggot pussy position, gazing up into Brett’s wide eyes.

Zane pulls down his jockstrap, his cock flipping briefly into view.  He slides it along the trench of Brett’s ass.

Brett juts his shoulders back, looking at me with an expression of pity.  He squirms a bit, but it’s no use.

Zane’s face works its way into view a moment later, just past Brett’s.  He does his best to mimic Brett’s typical facial expression, a dorky, cocky simper with big eyes.  There is a bit of a resemblance.

But, a second later, their faces could not be more different.

Zane’s mouth drops open in a sick smile; his eyebrows furrow in concentration; his eyes droop in ecstasy as he licks the corner of his lips.

Brett’s head bounces around, his mouth still taped shut, his eyebrows fleeing toward his hairline, his eyes popping halfway out of his skull.

I hear the clap of Zane’s abs against Brett’s ass.

“You are a faggot,” Zane says, nibbling Brett’s ear and playing with his hair.  “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

For good while, Zane fucks Brett.  All I can hear is the slapping, gasping sounds of Zane working himself short of breathe.

I stare into Brett’s eyes as the spark in them slowly fades.

Brett’s on the path to learn what I’ve learned.  And he had to learn the hard way, just like me.

Brett had assumed that at some level, I didn’t like the way Zane treats me.  But that’s a bit or a mischaracterization.

Zane LET me be—HELPED me be--MADE me be---the cundango faggot no one else would allow me to be.  Idealists like Calvin had assumed that freedom would let people prove how good they are, but the cynics see they can just as easily prove any number of things.

Idealism isn’t some moral shelf in the sky.  It’s the shelf ideas sit on before they are tested out.  Like a virus culture in a petri dish, growing and growing in its little container, shielded from the real world, ready to be used, manipulated, and, eventually, unleashed.

I look into Zane’s eyes, biting my upper lip.

“You wish it was you, coin?  Tied up, taped up, getting your slave pussy pounded?”

I nod.

“Get over here.”

I find my feet, walking over to Zane.

“Eat my ass, faggot.”

I sink to my knees behind Zane, before burrowing my face inside.  The sharp musk overwhelms me and I almost black out.  He tightens his ass around my face, knotting up my tongue as I try to scoop out his flavor.  I wait, breathing in his vapor, as his ass slowly unsticks.

Each time he thrusts inside of Brett, his ass clamps down around my face, and I wait, patiently, to be released.

Zane’s voice carries over.

“To take over a Pride, the first thing a lion does is kill the old alpha males.  But do you know the second, Brett?”

Zane lets the question hang, gyrating in and out three more times, giving Brett time to answer, as though he somehow could with his mouth taped shut.

“He attacks the babies,” Zane says.  “Each mother defends them viciously.  But the lion is stronger, so he gets his way.  He severs the old Pride’s bloodline.  And do you know what the lionesses do, after they mourn?”

FWAP FWAP FWAP.

“What do you think, Travis?”

I pull my face out of Zane’s ass, lapping at his balls.  “I don’t know.  What do they do, Zane?” I ask in a whisper.

FWAP FWAP FWAP.

“They ovulate.  They lie down and jut their pussies up and let the new alpha fuck them.  When a bitch gets defeated badly enough, sometimes getting fucked is all it knows to do.  That’s what she yearns for—to consecrate the oblivion so she can start over.  To be torn down completely so she can rebuild stronger.”

“Stronger?  Why stronger?”

FWAP FWAP FWAP.

“Because, faggot, the Alpha proved his cum is best.”

Zane slaps Brett’s face again, and this time, I don’t have the will to stop him.  “You understand what happened, don’t you?  In another life, you and Calvin might have grown up to marry women and father children.  But how can you now?  Every time you see an alpha male, you’ll wonder what he’s packing—what it will take to get him to pack your juicy ass with it.  You tried to pretend you had no honor, because it was the last card you had to play.  But you do have honor.  You can’t lie.  You’re a FUCKING FAGGOT, just like your bitch of a younger brother.  Did Calvin tell you he’s been stealing my jockstraps?  So he can jack off, dreaming of me?”

Zane grips Brett’s hair hard, pulling his face into the air, making Brett arch his back and distend his crowning ass.  Then, suddenly, he let’s go of Brett’s head.

“I could do this all day.  I can maintain this delicious, deep slowness as long as I want.  I’ll tell you what—I’ll let you choose when you’re ready for the climax.  All you have to do—is get in the faggot pussy position.  You saw Travis do it.  Don’t be shy.”

For the next few minutes, Zane maintains his pace, biding his time, savoring every second he gets inside Brett’s tight, wet ass, proving his endless control.

Then, slowly, the lump under Zane begins to move.

Brett presses his face down into the coffin, scrunching his body in, and pushing his muscle-bound ass into the air.

Zane palms Brett’s ass before slapping it with both hands.  “YES!” he exults, picking up the pace.  “Oh, fuck, what a cunt!  YES!!” He whimpers.  Then he laughs.  “You’re all faggots now, and you’ll honor what you are.  How could you marry a woman after this?”

Brett starts to whimper and push his ass up, in rebellion or collusion I cannot know; in any case, the appearance and effect is one of utmost submission.

“You know what that means, Travis?” Zane asks, laughing.  “I just severed the Wombach bloodline.”

Zane wraps his arms around Brett, flexing as he claims his newest prize.

With four more vicious, thumping, thrusts, Zane buries his cock balls-deep up Brett’s newly minted cunt.

I circle back around, looking into Brett’s eyes, where the spark has long since died.  It seems to have been stolen by Zane, whose green eyes twinkle as he flashes me a crooked smile.

Brett hangs his head.

“You’re a bastard, Zane.”

The muffled voice comes from inside the box that Brett is splayed out on.

Zane pulls out of Brett, who shudders and collapses back on the coffin.  Zane lingers beside the coffin, turning his gaze on me.

“Lift the lid,” Zane says.

I push the lid up.  Brett slides off, landing on the floor in a heap.

“I’m good for my word,” Zane says, glaring into the gap.  “Unlike your bitch of big bro.”

Then he points his cock at the gap, the slit in the head glinting.

A moment later, I see the glittering stream flow forth.  I hear it bouncing around the inside of the coffin, trickling and pattering here and there.

He shakes his cock, letting out a few last stray beads, before snapping his jockstrap back into place.  I hear him kick the knife over to Brett.

“Go ahead and cut yourself free, fag.  I’m sure you’ll want to clean this mess up before your parents get home.”  Zane slams the coffin lid shut.  “Let’s go, coin.  I don’t want to be here anymore.”

I look at my pajamas, unsure if I should even ask.

“Don’t bother,” Zane says.  He scoops them up for me.  Then we sweep out of the garage and back into the house, the door sticking shut behind us.

Zane gestures for me to follow him out the front door, baring his teeth in an almost smile.


---


I look around as I walk outside, feeling the air prickle my body.  Luckily, there’s no one near us.

We hop in on opposite sides of Zane’s truck.

“What if someone sees us?” I ask.

Zane starts the engine, then presses the gas.  “They’ll see two shirtless, muscular teens with buzz cuts.  They might not catch that you are naked.  They’ll probably mistake us for friends.  Two badass bros, hanging out.”

I chew on my tongue, saying nothing as the tires skid along the streets.

“I suppose you can hide if you want to,” Zane says.

“Where?”

“Here.”  Zane grips the back of my head and forces it into his crotch, his cock and balls imprinting my face through the jockstrap.  “Clean my junk.”

I pull his waistband away from his body far enough to free his cock.

Merely holding it in my hands has quite an impact on me.

It’s warm to the touch, and fierce looking.  If I pay close attention, I can sense his heartbeat.  His cock starts to thicken in my palm, demanding more intense affection.

“Go on,” Zane says, gripping the back of my head and pushing down.

There are some skid marks from Brett’s ass on Zane’s cock, swirled up with a shell of cum.

I close my mouth around Zane’s cockhead, breaking down the dried cum, tasting hints of Brett’s musk mixed in.

Zane puppeteers my head with one hand while he steers the truck with the other.

The noises of slime rolling around my mouth is drowned out by the noise of the engine revving.

This drags on for a few minutes, his cock finally prodding the back of my throat.  Suddenly, everything goes dark.

Zane pulls my head up, and through the rear-view mirror, I see the garage door trundling down, boxing us in.

“Home sweet home,” Zane says.

He hops out of the truck and I follow suit.

Zane’s garage is almost empty.  No more than three boxes sit on the shelves.

I stop looking around, staring at my feet instead.  It is too dark to see much anyway.

I follow Zane into the house.  He never bothers to put his cock away, so it bounces around as he walks, in a way I find a bit too precarious for my liking.

He collapses back onto the couch, his cock pointing straight up into the air.  He stares blankly at the ceiling.

I crouch down in front of him.  “You’re bruised,” I says softly.  Little purple marks blemish his skin where Brett had slammed him into wood and concrete.  I close my mouth around one of them, then another, peppering them with wet kisses.

“That was close,” Zane says.  “If you hadn’t… If you hadn’t been able to help me…”

A bit of my hair is sweaty and stuck to my forehead.  Zane pushes it up slowly.

“It’s okay to depend on others sometimes,” I say, before kissing a bruise I had missed.

“No.  It isn’t,” Zane hisses.  “You were the only one who kept your head.  That’s embarrassing.”

“So it’s a good thing you own me, then.  A handy hunk of extra muscle with a couple sweet holes.”

“SHUT UP.”  Zane pushes me away.   “People are getting desperate, and that’s when they are dangerous.  We got lucky this time.”

Zane stares at the ceiling again, and I wait for him to go on.

“I don’t really like people,” he says.  “But I like being alone even less.”

“Be with me then.”

“I don’t have a good track record of taking care of things,” he says softly.  “Leroy…”

“You had a whole prison to fight off.”  I look around the barren house, thinking for the first time what it would be like to live here.  “Couldn’t you get a dog?  I saw you had the stuff for one, in the dog house.  What’s that about?  Did you used to have one?”

“Yeah.  Named Princess.”

“And?”

“She ate my dad’s cheeseburger.  So he shot her in the head.”

“Zane…” I say softly.

His eyes start to water.

I lay my head on his chest, averting my eyes.

His voice gets a bit grainy.  “I have to quit wrestling.”

“Why?”

“I need a job.  I’m broke.  My dad’s in prison.  And my uncle stopped coming by to give me cash.”

“I can do it,” I say.  “I’ve already quit the team anyway.  I have nothing better to do.  Like you said about a pride of lions.  The lionesses do all the hunting.  The alpha rakes in the spoils.  All he has to do is flex his muscles.”

Zane smirks, his cock jumping.   Then he flexes for me, the spark flashing in his glistening eyes.

I look up at him, licking my chops.

He pulls me in till our lips collide.

The kiss starts slow and wet, his tongue rolling around mine.  Then he invades my mouth, jabbing my cheeks with his tongue.  He pulls my head back slightly, gripping my jaw to keep my mouth open in a little ‘o’.

He spits inside.

I swallow, keeping my mouth open like I practiced.

He repeats the process to his heart’s content.

When he stops, I bend down and start licking his tattoos.

“You aren’t like a lioness.  You’re too domesticated.”

I stop, looking into his eyes and panting, my tongue lolling out.

“Are you serious right now?” Zane asks.  “First you play the role of Leroy…and now Princess?”

“Rururur,” I growl.

“You want to be my fucking puppy?”

I grin from ear to ear, jutting my tongue out.

“Don’t wind me up,” Zane says, the light in his eyes slicing.

“Ruhhurr.”

He slaps my face.  The he shoves me off him.

I thump to the floor, bruising my rib.

“Faggot pussy position,” Zane says, rising to his feet.

Up goes my ass, down goes my face.

“Stay,” he says, sweeping from the room.

I wait.

Zane returns a minute later with a chain collar in his hand.  He bends down, loops it around my neck, and fastens it tight.  “The necklace was too good for you…but maybe the collar isn’t.”

I nuzzle between Zane’s legs.  Then I tilt my head up, my tongue hanging out, before I swirl it at the airspace between my face and Zane’s cock.

“Rrrg.”

“Fucking bitch,” Zane says, flashing me his twisted smile.

I lick slowly between his balls before making my way up the shaft of his cock.  Zane cinches the collar, pulling me back by the neck.

I lick at the air once, then I wait with my mouth open and my tongue half out.

“You were a good girl today, so I’ll let you suck me off,” Zane says.  “But from now on—it’ll cost my little puppy faggot…”

“Rrruf.  Riiirr.”

“Next time you’d better have 200 bucks for me—got it?”

I nod, whimpering.

“And don’t touch yourself in the meantime.”

He lets go of the collar, and I impale my face on his cock, grunting and slurping my way down, not relenting till it’s buried all the way inside me.

He grips my hair, tilting my head back, making me look into his icy eyes while I suck his cock.

“Oh…before I forget,” he says, petting my head, “there is one more thing.”



---
Feedback keeps me in the mood to write, edit, and brainstorm.  Always glad to hear from readers. :)

I've revised the plan for this story and it looks to go on for probably a half-dozen or so more parts.

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Taste of Power, Part 24

Part XXIV



A flash in the pan.

Zane’s phrase echoes around and around.

A flash in the pancosmos.

That’s probably not a word, but it should be.

The totality of everything.  The finality in everything.

The atom was defined to be indivisible, and then people whispered of it breaking.

The universe was defined to be all encompassing, and now people whisper of its kin.

A singularity split into multiplicity.

Every world, its own possibility; every possibility its own world.

The other day, we learned two ways of modelling odds.

Discrete functions come in distinct building blocks.  You can only arrange them in so many ways, like sides on a die.

Continuous functions come in fluid masses.  You can break them down to your heart’s content, like water in the ocean.

Which one describes the world at its most fundamental level?

Is there something fundamentally unbreakable?

Can everything be broken?


---


“Calvin’s brother Brett is in town for the weekend,” my mom says, pouring me a bowl of cereal.

I grunt.

“They invited you to go to the drive-in.  Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Your father and I have been a bit worried about you,” she says, tapping her thumb against the table.  “You’re out and about more; sure.  But you seem so distant.  The hair, the earring, the dirty looks.  Calvin seemed worried too.  He said--you’ve been spending time with Zane from wrestling.”

I drop my spoon.  “Is that what he said?”

“Yes.  And I don’t want to be a mother hen, but that boy seems like a bit of a bad egg.  Didn’t he go to juvenile hall?”

“Everyone deserves a second chance.”

My mom scowls.  “As an adult, even I’m scared of teenagers like him.  So when I see that earring, and that haircut—“  My mom stops to try to compose herself.  “That’s superficial stuff.  I’m just worried you’ll become some kind of gangbanger.”

“You know me.”

“It’s not a joke!  What if you get in over your head?”

“I’ll let you know the moment things get too serious.”

“Travis, I don’t want you spending time with Zane.”

I stare silently at the bowl.  The cereal bloats in its milk.

“Meet me halfway.  Go to the drive-in.  And don’t let Zane rope you in with the wrong crowd.  Or I swear to God, Travis…”

“Fine,” I say.

“So we’re good?”

“Yeah.”


---


I remember coming over to play mokimon cards one summer—it must have been about four and a half years ago--when Brett was just starting high school.  Calvin, my intended opponent, wasn’t there, but Brett was.  He asked me to help him wash the family Mazda.  In nothing but his P.E. shorts.

I should have been suspicious when he had me stash my new mokimon deck inside.

We spent more time spraying each other with the hose than we did the car.  Brett’s always been a bit ahead of his years, in terms of development.  The image is still seared into my mind.  Soapy water mingling with sweat, running down his thick muscles, glinting with sunlight, cementing his stretchy shorts around his tight ass and thick dick.

I could see it all through the wet fabric.

Not everyone remembers the exact moment they knew they weren’t straight.

But I do.


---


“What’s up, Travioli?” Brett asks.

“Nothing much, Wombat,” I fire back.

Brett and Calvin’s last name—Wombach—had been the source of ridicule in their formative years.  But it confused Coach when they were on the team together.  Since Coach never addressed us that way, we shied away from last-name formalities.

And any mocking derivatives.

But Coach isn’t around now.

And neither Brett nor I are on the team anymore.

We had last crossed paths at a New Year’s party my parents made me go to, when he was back from college a few months ago.  I had been shy with him, afraid that college might have changed his free-wheeling attitude.

A lot had happened since the day washing the Mazda.

Today, I am confident I am the more changed man.

To the point that I’m not really a man at all.

I sit down in the backseat, and Brett twists around to give me a noogie.

My fears were misguided in any case.  He hasn’t changed a bit.

I cringe.  “Once you start driving, you’ll be vulnerable, you know,” I say, wrinkling my lips and blocking with my forearm.

“Don’t be silly, Travioli.  Once I start driving, we’ll ALL be vulnerable.”

Brett snaps back into place and floors it.

The wheels screech and off we go.

The buttplug spears my ass.  Zane hadn’t made me wear it, but I wanted the reminder.

Colors whirl around us.  I close my eyes, focusing inward, until I’ve slowed my heartbeat.  Then I open back up, my expression blank.

A few blurry stoplights later, Brett pulls into the gas station.  “I’m gonna wash the windows.  Not sure how Calvin sees out of this thing.”

“By driving at a reasonable speed?” Calvin says.  “Aren’t older siblings supposed to be the good ones?”

Brett shrugs.  “Wanna buy some peanut M & Ms?” He says, tossing me a five dollar bill.  “And get a drink from Smoothie Shack across the street?”

Needles seem to migrate up inside me, prickling my spine.  Chris gave me money to buy smoothies sometimes, on the way home from school, when he filled up the tank.  I can’t help but shiver.  “It’s…still wrestling season, though.”

“But you aren’t on the team anymore.”

“I suppose not,” I say.

I guess a smoothie and some peanut M&Ms won’t kill me.

Brett hurries us along, and before long we are zooming to the theater.

The tellers give us the radio station, and we pull into the lot, parking at a bit of a slope so we can see the screen.

Tonight’s entertainment is “Big Bang Brothers: The Movie,” and it has no shortage of flashy explosions right from the get-go.  Brett doesn’t give me much of a chance to soak in the plot, assuming there is one.

Instead he and Calvin join me in the backseat.

Brett whips off his shirt, flexing, draping an arm around me.

I give him a searching look.

“Like what you see?” Brett asks.

“Shut up.”

Brett rubs my hair again.  “You were always a bit confusing.”

“You can’t just swing in here after months away and jockey into my inner circle.  My mind’s been all rearranged.  It’s been a long time since I’ve really thought of you.”

“So you have really thought of me?  I had a feeling…but I chickened out.  You gotta understand, it would have looked like I was taking advantage of you.  What would my parents think?”

I shift in my seat.  “You didn’t come all the way back from college for the weekend to show me your pecs.”

“Maybe I did.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Fine.  Calvin says you use movies as an excuse to cuddle.  And I use anything as an excuse to show off.  But that’s not important.  What’s important is that I’m really here about Zane.”

I lean over onto Calvin’s shoulder, and Brett drapes his bare arm around me from the other side.

“What about Zane?” I ask, arching my back a bit.

“Do you think it is okay?” Brett asks.  “The way he’s been acting?”

I close my eyes.  “My definition of okay has evolved.  Zane does what everyone does.  He uses tools to accumulate power.  It’s okay because that’s life.  He’s just better at life than me.”

“Well, then let me be your tool then.  I can flip the script.  You’ll be great at life in no time.”

Calvin sighs, finally chiming in.  “What Brett is saying is that Zane is morally bankrupt.”

Brett makes a pouty motor-boat noise.  “What I’m saying is that you can’t let yourself get treated that way.”

I shrug.  “I like how he treats me.”

“Did you always?”

“It’s an acquired taste.”

“So acquire a new taste, because this one is pathetic as hell.”

“I don’t mind being pathetic as hell.”

“Fine, okay,” Brett says.  “Maybe another angle.  What is attractive about Zane?”

I pause, staring at the explosion on screen.  The colors billow out in waves to the edges, fracturing in a sea of glass and smoke and fire.

His words play back in my mind.

Revulsion.  It’s is a defense mechanism, shielding a culture from complications deemed too taxing.  Fabricating exploitable social strata.  The hatred protects people from looking into the painful, shadowy mirror of their desires that outsiders reflect.

 “You remember Hiro?” I ask, still peering at the screen.

Brett nods.

I exhale.  “I met Hiro late on in middle school, when my friendship with Calvin was disintegrating, and he kept me from hating Calvin.  He said my feeling of hatred for Calvin were filling a void.  I cared about Calvin, but since I wasn’t supposed to care about someone who had abandoned me, I built around my feelings a surface emotion that seemed to fit.”

“And Zane?"

I turn to Brett.   “He’s forbidden.  He’s disgusting.  He’s bad.  He’s everything I’m supposed to hate.  But I can’t help but wonder if that hatred was constructed around a kind of taboo admiration.   Zane isn’t afraid to do whatever the fuck he wants in a world obsessed with approval.  People can’t decide whether to revere or scorn that; they reek of jealousy.  But there’s no denying it turns me on.”

“But if you are a slave…doesn’t that mean you need his approval?”

“Yes.”

Calvin pushes me off his shoulder.

Brett laughs.  “I think you have it backwards.  Zane is gross to the core, and you’re the one giving him the veneer of credibility.”

“To each his own.”

“And what happens when Zane gets fat and senile and powerless, and falls on the sword of his own heartless philosophy?  What will you say then?”

“What will you say if you die and you realize you chose the wrong religion?”

“Damn.”

We watch the movie in relative silence for a while, as the rag-tag cartoon puffballs, wizards, elves, and a kid with a yo-yo form a team to fight the evil Mr. Fist.

“I don’t expect you to really help us,” Brett says abruptly.  “But if you are reduced to the role of a spectator, then you can watch me bring about Zane’s downfall.”

I grunt.

“So can I get your word that you won’t warn Zane in any way?”

“Fine,” I say softly.  “I won’t warn him.”

“Good,” Brett says, rubbing my hair again.  “Because you kind of have to be part of the plan.”


---


I spend the night at Calvin’s.

Brett confiscates my phone, messaging Zane that I was forced by our parents to spend the night with Calvin, and that they will be gone tomorrow afternoon on some kind of wine-train for a few hours.  All of which is accurate, but leaves out the presence of Brett.

Brett and I are given separate sleeping bags, but he makes us use them as blankets (one below like a bed and one above like a sheet) so that he can hold me all night, again finding an excuse to go shirtless.

Zane must suspect that something is going on, right?

I doze intermittently.

Images of the physics lab float across my eyes.

The marble rolling down the track.

Gravity.  Forces of nature.

Einstein, the smartest man alive, wrapped up in his time just like everyone else.

What happened?


---


Einstein fled the Nazis, but they weren’t the ones who started it.

The strong survive, the weak snuffed out.  Facilitate it; accelerate it; wrap your values around your strengths; belittle your shortcomings.

U.S. court cases in the early 1900s decreed people too stupid to procreate.  Castrated them.  Chemically.

The United States didn’t lead the charge against it; we epitomized the craze.

It wasn’t till World War II that the moral outrage begun—when eugenics started being seen as the weapon of the enemy.

Nazis killed Jews, cripples, blacks, gays—anyone they didn’t see as the cream of the crop.

The U.S. retaliated by severing their line of thought.

Martin Luther King Jr. says the arc of history bends toward justice.

If Hitler is a social Darwinist, then perhaps Reverend King is a moral Darwinist.

And I’m not a Darwinist at all.  At least, not outside the context of survival.  Sure, people have evolved.  Cultures have evolved.  Morals have evolved.

But people haven’t gotten—better.

In some ways, they haven’t even changed.


---


What they’ve done is rearrange where their social circles are drawn.


---


“You’re gonna eat brunch with us before we lock you up,” Brett says.

I give Brett a sideways look.  “If you say so.”

It strikes me that it’s a bit rude for Calvin’s parents to disappear for a chunk of Brett’s trip home.  Although—Brett may have timed his trip that way.  Or orchestrated his parents’ getaway.

About twenty minutes after Calvin’s parents leave, the smell wafts through the house.

Crispy hashbrowns, egg-battered French toast, sausage patties, Mimosas.

“What is this—my last meal?”

“You can think of it that way, sure.”

He ushers me toward the dining room, not even giving me a chance to change out of my pajamas.

There isn’t much talking as we eat.  Just the clinking of silver.

I do get some idea of the plan though.  I’ll be cuffed on my knees in the garage, with Brett sitting nearby, hoping to pass as Calvin from the back.  The real Calvin will be hiding among some of the old Halloween decorations.

By the time Zane realizes he is dealing with Brett…

It makes me squirm just thinking about it.

I promised I wouldn’t warn Zane…and Brett took my phone anyway.

Right after brunch, they herd me back into Calvin’s room, and Brett dumps out the box of things, looking for handcuffs.

Calvin’s toys litter the floor; plastic, leather, and a glass dildo glint up at me.

Among them, a thin metal rod catches my eye.

A snake rake.  I recognize the little tool—as Zane’s.  He must have left it here.

I step into the toy pile, gazing at the Jackie Chan Adventures poster on Calvin’s wall.  Then, I clench my toes around the snake rake.

The lights in the room sting my eyes; a film of sweat tickles my skin.

“What are you doing?” Brett asks, a little laughter in his voice.

I feel the cuffs clink, confining my arms behind my back.

I struggle against them, making a show for Brett.

My heart starts thumping in my chest.  Any second, Brett’s going to break into hysterical laughter.  He’s going to give me shit for trying something so obvious.  Thump me on the back for being such an idiot.

Then—remarkably—the moment seems to pass.

“Zane texted that he’s on his way,” Calvin says.  “Says he had to stop by Chris’s house first, to give him something.”

My heartbeat plods along.  It’s difficult to walk with my toe clenched shut around the snake rake.

Brett wrenches the handle of the airtight door, the seal making a sticky noise as it opens and closes.

We make our way into the musty garage.

Calvin hides in the Halloween coffin in the corner, and Brett pushes me down to my knees, taking a moment to look down at me.

“Zane had a good run.  But I think it’s time for your conversion.”

I look into his eyes, saying nothing.

Brett looms over me, his tight shorts and confined dick inches from my face.

He reaches forward, cradling my head.

“Like what you see?”

A few years ago, I’d be electrified at the suggestion.

But now—I think I might be sick.

I feel myself convulsing.

They want to hurt Zane.  I can’t stomach the thought of it.

My eyes mist over, but I fight the tears away.  I glare up at Brett.

“I—I can’t, Brett.”

Brett smirks, rubbing my hair, before sinking to his knees across from me, facing away from the door.

“Sure you can.”

My mouth hangs slightly open as I lean back, swallowing the lump in my throat and gritting myself.  I finally unclench the toe, feeling around for the snake rake.  It’s warm and wet around it—I’ve cut my foot.

I fumble for the keyhole, but it’s no use.

I don’t know the first thing about picking locks.

I’d watched Zane do it so many times.  Why didn’t I pay more attention?

“Your life’s about to change,” Brett says, reading the consternation on my face.

I close my eyes, replaying Zane’s method in my mind.  He didn’t just jam it in there.  It was like he was looking for something—something inside the locking mechanism.  Pins.  I think that is the word.

Without opening my eyes, I talk back to Brett.  “As people change, the way that they change stays largely the same.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“People don’t so much improve, as they do adjust.  The conditions differ, and they respond.”

“You don’t think people build on the past?”

“They do.  Just not as people think they do.”

I try the lock again, ransacking my mind to see if there is some memory that I missed.

In frustration, the snake-rake slips from my fingers.  I grope behind me, trying to find it.  I pray that Brett didn’t hear the sound.

“It’s no use trying to fight it,” Brett says.  “You have to let him go.”

“I can’t!  I CAN’T!”

Brett shakes his head.  “Sure you can.”

I clamp my lips shut.

Brett tilts his head, smiling, before leaning toward me with his eyebrows raised.  “Bet on it.”


---
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