Taste of Power

Taste of Power by: Krazytop ---

Part XVIII

"What's the meaning of life?"

Zane asks the question gently. Nothing covers his muscled, fierce body except his coiling tattoos.

I'd spent the night in the hammock, wriggling occasionally to get the blood flowing. Zane had been kind enough to rewrap me in a blanket in the middle of the night before stringing me back up, like a baby in swaddling. I'm not quite sure what Zane did to Calvin during that time. In any case, I hadn't slept all that well. Once the sun rose, it wasn't possible to sleep—a lance of light shone right into my eyes.

Now Calvin was getting his turn tied up in the hammock, and Zane had commandeered his bedroom for my next lesson.

"I don't know, Zane," I say. "Maybe there isn't one."

"It's something of a pretentious question," Zane muses. "Like looking at a painting, and asking what it means, or imagining symbolism in a story that might just be a story. What's the meaning? What's the point? Why are we here?" Zane laughs. I don't join him.

He unrolls me from the blanket, spilling me onto the bed, like splitting open a sushi roll. I collapse there, clinging to the soft support beneath me.

He positions my head in the vice-grip of his quadriceps, entrenching me in the milieu of his crotch. "Some say people make their own meaning," he says. "In place of something concrete, they choose a cause, overstate it, and dedicate themselves to it. They moralize it. Like how Calvin tries to stand up for fags. It's because he sees himself in them. Righteousness can be very narcissistic. He was trying to help you. But if he really wanted to be a good person, he should have kept an open mind. He should have tried to help someone different from himself—like me. Won't you help me, Travis?"

"I'll try."

"You can start by licking my balls."

I stick out my tongue and begin to slowly lick.

"To me, life is about power. But power can be illusory. People often think they have power, when in fact they are merely a vehicle of society's evolution. You can only really tell how powerful someone is after the fact—in their absence—when you see which things, if anything, fall apart without them."

"Like when Abraham Lincoln died, and Reconstruction went to shit."

"Lincoln cared for people," Zane says, almost dreamily. "You know he slept with men? I bet he gave good head. He always has nice lips, in the portraits."

"Show a bit of respect, Zane."

"Come on. You know `love of country' is a scam. A false sense of meaning. The lie of freedom. A ploy for power."

"Lincoln tried to change that."

"Maybe that's why someone pulled a gun on him and shot him."

"It wasn't the end of his cause. MLK stood beneath his statue 100 years later--and declared that the moral arc of history bends toward justice. Don't you believe that?"

"I believe that someone shot him too." Zane smirks. "Did I say to stop?" He presses my face into his meaty, sweat-coated balls, and I open my mouth, swirling my tongue around. "Abraham Lincoln—named for Abraham. The guy God told to kill his son, just to see if he would do ANYTHING. Lincoln once said, `nothing stamped with the Divine image and likeness was sent into the world to be trodden on and degraded.' So if Lincoln believes himself to made in God's image—maybe that means he created the Civil War just to check if people would kill and be killed for him—and ramifications of following through were more of an echo."

"He did it to free people," I whisper, nibbling Zane's thigh.

"He did it to preserve the country. Like always, freedom was just good marketing. People have delusions of grandeur. Delusions of relevance, even. In a philosophical or moral sense, they think of themselves as special. As little slivers of God. Feel free to think of me that way, but that's never how I'll think of you. Or anyone for that matter."

I stare into Zane's cock, too turned on to think about the meaning of life.

"And how do you think of me?" I ask.

I start licking it, digging under the foreskin with my tongue and tasting the grunge there.

"As a disgusting—utterly inferior—yet strangely arousing—servile faggot."

"You must respect me a little," I whisper, breathing in the smell of his balls.

"In this world, masculinity is power. Your dick and balls are completely superfluous. What's to respect?"

I lick his cock from hilt to tip. "But you like my muscles. And my holes."

"I like overpowering you."

He sits up, fingering my hole, and I whimper.

I catch my breath.

"Not half as much as you like talking about the meaning of life, it seems."

Zane slaps my ass so hard it stings. "SHUT UP. Don't you understand? I want more than just your body. I would say—I can't have your body completely—without taking your mind first."

"I'm not going to start bad-mouthing Lincoln."

"Remember your tantrum about the pledge of allegiance? About how despite all the so-called progress, you live in a world where you are forced to say you are free? A world built on accepting the declarations of power-hungry dogs, who bark out so-called truths about how the way we do things MUST be righteous; it MUST be the best; it just so HAPPENS to preserve things for those in POWER! Lincoln was president of a country. Who is going to give up half their country? I might not either, if I was in charge. Why not worship me, then?" Zane laughs. "So I rewrote the pledge of allegiance for you."

He slips me a piece of paper from the bedside table, and I scan it.

"I'm not saying this."

"YES YOU ARE."

He pushes my face into his ass with both hands. I beat on his chest with my fists, and he flexes like it's nothing. I'm inundated by the overwhelming essence of him. Slowly, the drumbeat of my palms softens.

Finally, he lets me out for air.

"READ IT," he growls.

I grip the piece of paper, sucking in. "I pledge allegiance to the ass--of the multifaceted Zane, and to the power it represents, one divine master, unquestionable, with enslavement and judgment for all."

"LICK MY ASS."

I spread his ass cheeks, lapping along the crack. On the third line, I circle and suck the ring, and Zane chuckles.

"All men are created equal!" Zane spits, laughing. "What idiot could look at you and think that? It defies even the most basic logic. People are not equal by virtue of being people. That would be like saying all numbers are equal by virtue of being numbers. People like to believe it, because it sounds fair, but that's just totally beside the point. Fags can be so damn oblivious sometimes."

"What if we make it part of the definition of what a person is—that they are equal?" I ask.

"Then you aren't a person at all. And maybe that's a better way of looking at it. You aren't a man, Travis. Not like that. You are a wild animal. A dog. A fucking faggot!"

"Yes master."

I nestle in and lick his ass again.

"What makes people think they are so special?" Zane asks, petting my hair. "Their `big' brains? Dolphins have big brains. Whales have big brains. Even dogs have big brains. The only thing that seems to make these big-brained things so special—apart from their barking--is their heightened sex drive—they have sex for shear pleasure. Bacteria don't need big brains--or brains at all; but they just casually exchange DNA and move on. The bigger the sex drive, the bigger the brain required to battle that drive. The reason you appear so smart, Travis, is because you need to be able to channel all that will into controlling your inner animal. But the competition is rigged so that you will break down and lose. Losing the battle between your mind and your balls—is existential. So why fight at all?"

Last night, while I was swinging in the hammock, he had force-fed me a corndog and poured water into my mouth, and I'd snarfed it down. I felt like that again, taking in his ideas.

"I won't fight anymore," I say softly.

Zane scowls, picking up the shark-tooth necklace he'd given me weeks ago, which he must have found in my clothes. "Stop trying to be smart, Travis. You've missed too many details, taking too many mental shortcuts. You need to fill in the gaps. And to do that, you need to stop being afraid of being dumb."

He slips the necklace over my head. As it slides on, the cold chain digs into my neck.

"Then maybe you won't stage-manage what is REALLY self-evident."

He pulls me up by the necklace, then buries my face in one of the pillows.

"Ass up," Zane says.

I push my ass into the air.

I feel his tongue in my ass and I whimper, stealing a glance back at him. When he notices, he jams my face back into the pillow and licks me some more.

"Feel good?" he breathes.

"Yes, Zane."

"I've quite enjoyed our oral arguments on civil rights," Zane muses, dropping kisses up my back. "I thought I'd apologize in advance for putting you up to this."

"To what?"

Zane shuffles through the drawer. I flinch when I see what he retrieves.

A curved, sleek handle; a fluted barrel; a spiny trigger.

"Is that..?" I ask.

"My daddy's revolver," Zane says. "I promise you I won't intentionally hurt you with it. But we're going to play a game where it seems like I don't know where the bullet is. Sound good?"

I nod, as Zane spins the cylinder.

He holds the gun in front of my face. "Kiss it."

I kiss the side of the barrel; the cold metal sticks to my lips.

He slides it along my cheek, halting when my lips reach gunpoint, rotating the barrel straight at me. "Suck it."

My mouth encircles the fluted metal, and then Zane pushes the barrel into my mouth. I suck softly, tasting charcoal.

A hard pole prickles at my ass. Did Zane draw another gun? No--this one is warm and spongy and familiar. I tilt my ass up and Zane's cock forces its way inside. I moan around the gun, biting down on it, flexing, feeling a stab of pain as he snakes up my ass.

"I'll give you a bit of time to adjust," Zane says calmly. "When the minute dial flips on the clock, we will start. Every minute thereafter, I'll pull the trigger. Your job is to get me off as fast as possible. When I do, the game ends, and I won't shoot you. Since I rotated the cylinder and don't know where the bullet is, it could be in any of the six chambers. That's why the game is called Russian Roulette. Isn't that clever?"

I nod, my eyes wide.

Seconds tick by, and I focus on my breathing, opening slowly.

"Time to start, fag," Zane says, shoving the gun into my mouth to the hilt.

I push my ass into the air, swallowing up as much of Zane's cock as I can.

"Good," Zane says, gripping my ass with his free hand. "You need to learn to question who you are. People tend to lock up their potential in a dark corner of their brain. When they spout their so-called values, they think they are being eclectic--open-minded even. But really they are suppressing everything they could be, everything that they might not conform to, because they were convinced it was bad."

The metal tingles on my tongue. I shove my ass up again and again, feeling the slap of Zane's hard abdominals. He waits, stiff as a rock, making me do all the work.

"The ridiculous war on drugs—is a war on altered states of consciousness. Right now, you are high on sex. You can see the world differently. And that scares people. It subverts the few assumptions people thought they could agree on. But why do people need to agree on anything?"

I bite down on the gun again, bucking my ass into his cock as hard as I can, like a raging bull trying to get a rider off to no avail.

"Every great thinker levels the zealous assumptions that hold them back. And that's what I want you to do."

I try to clear my mind and focus on the task at hand.

"One." Zane pulls the trigger.

I whimper, impaling my ass, grinding against him till I feel his slimy balls.

"Why aw you ooe ih?" I ask, barely getting the words out around the gun.

"Because," Zane says, "I need you to learn. What it means to be mine. You have watched me with Calvin, growing jealous I'm sure. You are beginning to understand me. I'm not sharing you if I don't want to. Not anymore. Now you are sharing me."

"Soey."

I push my ass into him, going as hard and deep as I can, groaning around the barrel.

"SHUT UP."

He slaps my ass, then tugs on my necklace. "I gave you this. A poor recompense, letting Chris make this necklace—not to mention your hole--into his plaything. He isn't original enough to come up with ANYTHING himself. He owes me, and you owe me. I should make him eat my ass AGAIN."

As he tightens the chain, I gurgle around the barrel of the gun.

I rhythmically fuck myself on Zane's rigid cock—spanking my ass against his hard body.

"Two." Zane pulls the trigger.

I whine, shaking in place.

"I'm taking this back," Zane growls, tugging the necklace so hard the clasp snaps off—but not before the chain cinches my neck.

I don't feel like I have any control over the noises I'm making anymore, sniveling like a puppy as I try to give good hole.

"Just as well," Zane says. "It looked better on Leroy anyway."

I suck on the gun hard, enveloping his precious cock again and again and again.

Zane breathes into my ear. "I've stripped you down."

He bites hard on my neck, and I gripe into his gun.

"I marked you. Now I wanna hear you say it."

"You ipp me dnow. You mock me."

"Close enough," Zane says. "Now say Lincoln's a faggot."

I writhe in place.

"SAY IT."

I grind my ass against him.

"Three," Zane says.

"Licol a fagguh," I mumble, a tear running down my cheek.

Zane pulls the trigger--and I squeal.

"Good boy," Zane says, rubbing my hair. "Now you know what it feels like. Stop fabricating value. Tear down the façade. Merely exist. And embrace—the nothingness."

My hole clenches down on Zane's cock.

"Use it," Zane whispers, licking my ear. "Grip my cock."

I sniff, closing my eyes, focusing on controlling my ass. As I push out, I'm able to clench my butt cheeks and clutch his cock tightly.

"That's it," Zane cooes. "Flex those pussy muscles."

My breathing grows ragged and I chew on the gun.

I flex my pussy muscles. I absorb his cock into me, cajoling it deeper, pressing him in anticipation, in desire, in need. I pour feeling into my actions, as I drive myself deeper into what Zane wants from me. Into submission. Into emasculation.

Into oblivion.

"Four." Zane pulls the trigger.

I scream into the gun.

"The meaning of life," Zane says. "A purpose you guess...or a purpose you make?"

I moan—a long, deep, and echoic crackle.

Like a wild animal stranded in a desert--whose luck is about to turn--I see an oasis.

Every fiber of my being unites for one thing.

And he knows. God, he knows.

I'm His faggot.

There's no need to guess. He made me this way.

"Fuck me," I say. "Plea!"

His faggot... A purpose I feel.

"Don't be a lazy faggot. Fuck yourself."

"Mmmn!" I whimper.

I slam my ass into him as hard as I can, over and over, bouncing off his firm, sweaty abdominals like a diving platform, imbibing his reassuring cock like water.

I sink into what I am and what He is: me, His faggot pussy, and Him, a sliver of God.

I funnel my soul, my will, my entire being—into my hole. Into hugging him tightly. Into gripping the length of Zane's cock for dear life, massaging, invigorating, serving, cajoling, provoking, engulfing Him in deep sensation.

The energy pours from the tips of my fingers and toes, from every muscle I flex for Him, covering every inch of me. Zane pinches my nipples; I stretch from head to toe; I channel it all into my slave pussy.

FWAP FWAP FWAP.

Over and over, we collide, splitting sweat from our bodies and sending it airborne.

I pull him so deep inside me that my hole goes numb; I try to clench, but I can't really feel it.

"Five." He pulls the trigger.

I don't scream anymore.

FWAP FWAP FWAP.

"Coin," Zane says, stroking my hair. "I know you chafe at the nickname I gave you. Being reduced to value—it's insulting. But if value, as a concept, is so insulting, why do people have value systems at all? People just sense, intrinsically, that it's wrong. Things can't really be weighed; they are priceless'. Maybe that's why all our coins are shaped like a big, fat zeroes.' Being one with nothing—" Zane grips my ass. "Feels so damn good."

I half-close my eyes, sighing, as the feeling returns gradually to my body.

Zane nibbles my ear again. "I've very much enjoyed our discussion on country affairs."

I moan, cycling my ass around.

"Face it. It's not like in Perks of Being a Wallflower, how you listen to a song, and suddenly you are `infinite.' Quite the opposite. Fools inscribe things with value. Wise men break down the falsehood of that value. Then there is nothing. And in nothing, in just existing the way we are—in this nothingness, there is peace."

FWAP FWAP FWAP.

"I suppose I would acknowledge that nothingness is infinitely receptive. And when you become it, you can take on anything. You are a container. You are a reflection. You are--insatiable."

FWAP FWAP FWAP.

"Be the faggot you are meant to be."

Zane slams my face into the pillow, making me gargle on the gun, ripping me from a trancelike state. With one eye, I see him looming over me, sweat running down his muscles and tattoos, as he sneers at me, his green eyes twinkling.

I suck on the gun slowly as my ass clenches his cock. The last five minutes had sparked an ability in me—where I could time, instigate, and draw out my ass's contractions around his cock. I liked to do it just after my ass clapped against his abdominals, with his whole cock inside me, to maximize his stimulation.

I lose control of my ass again; it seems to take on a life of its own. I'm barely conscious of it punching back into Zane's abdominals, swallowing up Zane's cock again and again, and gripping down in accelerated waves.

Zane chews on my ear. "Worship me, faggot."

I curl my tongue around the barrel of the gun, as my ass works its way into a frenzy.

"Six," Zane says, pulling the trigger.

Explosion.

I'm gone. I'm blacking out.

THWAP.

Zane slaps my ass. "Wake up, faggot."

I catch my breath.

Zane pulls the gun out of my mouth, tossing it to the floor. "I guess the bullet must still be back at my house somewhere."

With a flicker of realization, I sense he's reaching underneath me to hold my dick. He lets go, fighting through a bit of stickiness.

"Did I cum?" I whisper.

He palms my lips, feeding me the answer.

I suck it down; it slides down my throat and into my gut.

He releases my mouth. "I fucked the cum out of you, pussy faggot. What next?"

For a few seconds, we breathe.

"Rape me."

He can't really; not with me this eager; but I don't want to pretend to give a shit anymore and I don't want him to either.

Zane pushes my head down into the pillow with both hands. He growls.

Then he lets loose.

Chris and Zane had pushed my limits before, but never like this.

I try to push my ass back and clench but I'm drained and Zane is forceful enough that he powers through what I'm doing to the point of futility.

He decides one hand on my head is enough, pushing it sideways so he can shove a couple sticky fingers into my mouth.

I lick and suck them while he hammers my hole.

He never lets up. He isn't waiting anymore. I remember now.

He can do whatever the hell he wants with me.

I'm not a man.

I'm his faggot.

What a fool I had been, in Mr. Andrews class, barking out complaints like my voice mattered—like that was the best use of the hole in my face.

Zane pulls his fingers from my mouth, tracing my cheek with my own saliva.

Nothing matters.

My mouth; my ass; my soul; stupid gulping zeros.

How lucky--yet deeply fitting--that a nothing like me could be the receptacle--the echo chamber-- for such awesome power.

FWAP FWAP FWAP.

"I'm your slave, Zane," I whimper.

FWAP FWAP FWAP.

"You own me," I croak.

"No shit, you dumb-fuck faggot."

My mind goes blank; Zane pads my ass and reassembles my reflexes into a pleasure machine.

He uses me harder and harder; his grunts build up to a roar. I feel him flexing around--and within--my body; his cum streaks deep within me; he bites my neck; he marks me--inside and out.

"What's the meaning of life?" he asks.

I stare into his twinkling eyes, opening my mouth and licking my lips.

His green eyes dance; he smirks; he spits into my open mouth—and I swallow.

--- Feedback keeps me in the mood to write and brainstorm and is always appreciated. :) email: krazytop@gmail.com tumblr: krazytop.tumblr.com