Taste of Power

Taste of Power by: Krazytop ---

Part XIX

Zane has beautiful eyes. Like a frozen lake, the frost is just a shell, and beneath it, deepness swims around, beckoning me to thaw the cold surface and fall inside. Not one of those blue, man-made lakes, but a lush emerald green, a lively amalgam of salt and limestone and moss and quartz.

His Mohawk used to terrify me. It's not one of those tall, spindly shark fins, but rather a stripe of messy red hair, with the tips seared black. The rest is buzzed slickly.

He pulls me up the bed so I can kiss his head, right next to the Mohawk, his hair pricking my lips.

"C'mon cunt-face," he says, gripping the back of my head. He tows me around as he sees fit, pulling me past his curled lip (I guess he isn't in the mood to kiss) and to his chin. I nibble there, looking up into his eyes again.

He stares down at me, mildly amused, before guiding me to his neck. It's thick, but somehow gentle as I chew on it. He's wearing the shark tooth necklace. I find myself missing it.

He sighs, arching his back before dragging my face between his pectorals. The shark tooth prickles my cheek as I nestle into his hot skin. Zane's musculature is a wonder to behold. I've always paled in comparison to both Chris and Zane in different ways. While Chris has the roundedness of a nascent body-builder, Zane has the rawness of a bitterly caged animal. His skin distends around the protruding veins of his dense, corded muscles, especially as he flexes. They have a pieced together quality to them—not a continuous aesthetic, like Chris, but a carved and stretched Frankenstein-like quilt of worked and reworked humanity.

The etchings of the tattoos snake like scars across his chest.

I nuzzle into the leaves of the tree tattoo, kissing the apple engraved there. Zane pushes me to his nipple, and I suck on it softly.

"Good faggot," Zane says.

My dick hardens. That's always embarrassed me and I finally know why. It's not small; it's nothing typically seen as humiliating. Rather—I never knew what to do with it. Lying in bed, masturbating, as Zane popped uninvited into my head—I would always feel guilty thinking about him, but it was misplaced anxiety. I should have felt bad about touching myself. Touching my dick was a substitute for touching a man like Zane. Now that I had touched him, masturbation seemed so hollow and narcissistic.

The reason I didn't know what to do with my dick is because nothing should be done with it. Like a painting, Zane can look at it, and appreciate it. He can celebrate the triumph he's had over my mind, manifest in my body.

I should put a museum sign on my dick that says `no touching.'

A week ago, I might have humped the bed while I sucked on his body. Now I stick my ass into the air. Partly to show it off for him, and partly to make sure my big, stupid dick didn't come into contact with anything but air.

I reach for Zane's cock. The thick, veined corkscrew twists in and out of my grip as I nurse Zane's nipple.

He pushes me to his arm, where the big ball of hair-flecked muscle is beaded in sweat. I lap at the sweat; he flexes, expediting my feed. The taste is stronger the closer I navigate toward his armpit, but he won't let me in, his strong arm sticking tightly to his side. I tongue the trench, whimpering, stretching Zane's sticky foreskin in my palm.

I once would balk at such an undignified display, but now I see my pathetic behavior as an asset.

Zane finds my inferiority arousing, so I'll make him feel as superior as possible.

Superiority is modal, the back of my mind whispers. You either are superior--or you aren't.

And I'm so fucking not.

"You want to pig out on my pits?" Zane asks.

I nod, my mouth wide open, as I tongue the crease between his arm and his body.

I clear my throat. "You gonna make me--your disgusting--utterly inferior—servile—faggot?"

"You already are, Travis."

He stretches his arm out and pushes my face into his grungy, delicious pit. I moan, lapping up and sucking down his essence with a zealous passion.

I don't try to control myself. Not anymore.

After a minute, I surface, gasping for breath, my lips and face covered in Zane's sweat, and gaze into the depths of Zane's eyes.

I grab my ballooned out ass and spread my ass cheeks, biting my tongue, as I slowly nudge my knee against master's perfect cock.

"You want your fag pussy fucked, don't you?" Zane asks.

I nod, nuzzling back into Zane's chest. "Unless," I whisper, "You'd prefer—that I fuck myself."

"Keep working your cunt-face, and maybe you'll get lucky," Zane says, pushing me down his abdominals.

"Yes, sir."

I catch patchwork abdominals in my mouth as I scuttle downward. He pulls his cock away from me, so I bury my face in his balls instead, inhaling slowly. He moves his legs up, padding his feet on my ass, and I take the hint, rooting in and lapping at his crack. I unleash a long tongue-stroke that goes from the bottom of his trench and parts his balls before slicking the base of his cock.

He slaps my face. "Did I say you could lick my cock?"

"No, master," I whisper. "Can I..kiss your balls?"

"You can KISS MY ASS."

"Yes, master," I croak. He pulls my head in, shaking it around in his dark musk, and I breathe slowly, rolling my tongue around.

A vigorous masculinity swamps me. Much like his armpits, but less obviously tasty, and more streamlined to unravel me.

"Sink lower," Zane growls. I tongue his hole as deeply as I can. He grips me by the head, pushing me down his body. I kiss his thighs, his knees, and his triceps.

He wiggles his toes.

I look up, all the way into those deep emerald lake eyes. I know what to do.

I take a big toe into my mouth, sucking it to the root.

Faggot bliss jolts through me.

I rub my ass, showing off for master as I take down one toe after another. I suck all the way, cleaning off and slurping up the funky sweat. My breathing is ragged as I lick between his toes.

Level my assumptions.

Become one with nothing.

I clear my mind of misguided pride. I clear it of everything useless, everything that isn't the drug of lust. Instead I stare into the crystalline green of Zane's condescending eyes, and descend into the lake of them.

"Get on the floor."

I nod, my mouth still agape, and slide onto the floor, bowing in front of Zane as he kicks his legs over the side of the bed.

He hunches over and cuffs my wrists behind my back.

He stands over me, biding his time as I slowly lick his feet.

"I want to help you grow, Travis."

"Yes, master."

"Growth hurts."

"Yes, master. Help me grow anyway."

He circles me and kneels behind me. I push my ass up, but he ignores it, using one arm to put me in a headlock, his other arm ironclad against the back and side of my neck.

I gargle for air.

"In our country, we celebrate how all people are supposedly equal," Zane says. "We all have a vote, at least, once we are old enough to be considered real people. This vote presumably counts for something. So why celebrate leadership, Travis? We're always looking for leaders. Heck, my counselor told me I should look to apply for a leadership scholarship. But isn't leadership all about a person treating their opinion as more important than other people's opinions? We all have a vote in whose opinion will matter more than ours for the next few years; a vote for who will screw us best."

It's the sleeper hold, I realize.

I can barely speak; I can barely see.

Hell...

"You know why, Zane," I croak. He eases up a bit, showing the mercy—or perhaps curiosity--to let me finish my thought. "Your opinion does matter more than mine. And the President's opinion is more consequential than yours. The number infinity is not equal to the number zero just because they are both numbers. People aren't really equal just because they are people. But the government hopes that if it makes itself sound good enough, maybe we won't fuck with their tea."

"Is equality even good though?" He asks, tightening his grip. "It seems boring."

"What else are they going to promise?" I breathe.

I flail in spite of myself as he buckles down.

"The truth."

The room fades around me, until all is nothing.

Is my whole body asleep?

Needles, needles, everywhere.

I breathe in ass flavor. Not Zane's.

I crane my head up, dislodging it from the ass cheeks it had been so carefully inserted into.

A cream-skinned bubble butt.

Calvin swivels his head back, murmuring. He sports the ball-gag. His eyes widen, briefly, before glazing over again, his eyelids drooping.

I swivel back, mirroring what Calvin did, knowing I'll see something a bit different.

I question my vision. Those little misty squiggles that dance over my eyes—they are all over me, prickling my body in little silver rays, like moonlight piercing through clouds.

Just beyond, Zane swigs a can of beer. "I would have asked if you wanted some...but since you don't drink..." He chuckles, pouring a little out on my head. The cool, sticky liquid webs my scalp, inundating me. It would have matted my hair, but not enough has grown back. A few beads of beer roll down my head in random directions.

Zane picks up a silver pin and pricks my ass, pushing it in an inch. I whine, and Zane buries my face in Calvin's ass, muffling me. "Quiet down, faggot."

Flecks of beer migrate off my head and onto Calvin's skin. I snort some up on accident.

Zane jabs me again, rending skin.

I'm not imagining it. Zane's turning me into a pin cushion.

The needles are real—acupuncture needles. I hope he knows what he is doing.

"I leveled your mind. I broke it down to its fundament." Zane pushes another needle into my ass, and I bite down around Calvin's hole. "You know the truth now. Ideals are a marketing scheme. A plot to conflate unsubstantiated drivel with higher thought. A character assassination on reality."

Calvin shivers, trying to stay in place.

"But let's not think about that. The best way to get around culture's vice-grip is to live and die by our basest impulses. Don't judge yourself for them. That's what gay rights is all about, right? Mainstream idealism sure as hell fucked that one up for the brunt of human history. People still don't really get it. We don't need to THINK about it anymore. Just go with our bodies." Zane nibbles my neck. "And my body wants you, Travis. After all, you did such a good job of demonstrating what my body means to you—by worshipping every inch of it. So I thought I'd show what your body is to me."

He prickles me again, in the thigh.

"I'm gonna mark you—every inch of you—as mine."

Zane palms my ass, and I feel the head of his cock brushing against my hole. He pours the last few drops of beer onto my ass, the alcohol stinging when it pools around the pinpricks.

I squirm in place, the handcuffs wringing my wrists.

"Eat ass, cunt-face."

He crushes the beer can slowly on my head, pushing my face into the hill of Calvin's ass, distorting it.

Zane tosses the empty can to the side, snarling. He buries my face as far as it will go in Calvin's ass before plunging his cock inside of me. As he approaches, his body collides with dozens of needles, pushing them deeper into my skin. I feel the prickles all over my body, making me shiver. He doesn't thrust all the way in; just enough to press the needles a bit further.

Sparks jump across my skin. Prick, prick, prick! Here; there; connections in my hollow mind, like needle and thread, sewing me together. The totality of me.

Every inch. Zane.

I push my ass up; several needles dig deeper into it; in tandem with his cock.

Every inch. Zane.

I lap at Calvin's propped up ass, as Zane works his way into me.

Every inch. Zane.

The mantra echoes in my hollowed out head.

Every needle in Zane's path burrows to the pinhead. He thrusts all the way in, holding me tight.

I suck hard on Calvin's ass, stifling a shriek, and taste a sweet raunch there.

My eyes bolt. It's Zane's cum. Buried like a treasure in Calvin's ass. I moan, slurping to dislodge it.

Zane chuckles. "I see you've found a prize in there." He embraces me, sucking my neck, flexing against the pinheads.

I shove my ass out, swallowing his cock up in my tunnel, treating him to my clenching pussy muscles.

I feel another prick on my ear. Zane reinserts the yin-yang earring.

He nibbles my ear and I gulp on Calvin's ass. When I surface for air, I can smell the alcohol on his breath, and it mingles with the amalgam flavor of Calvin's hole and Zane's cum.

"Jealous that I used his ass when I could have used yours? Is that why you are trying so hard to compensate now? To swallow my cum up both of your holes?"

I work his cock as best I can.

He scrapes at my back with his shark tooth, connecting a few pinpricks absentmindedly. The necklace has a bit of tainted quality now—it stings of my failure to overcome a babyish infatuation.

I remember my nervous heartbeat, teaching Chris how a centrifuge works. What a foreign emotion.

A sliver of me misses it.

Nervous that I'd be embarrassed. Contrived guilt, as Zane described it. I hover, motionless.

Zane forces my face back into Calvin's ass, drowning me in the flavor of it, and my memory fizzles, decomposing in front of my eyes. I gurgle the cum out of Calvin's ass, finally mining it out from the depths of the well, and gulping it down.

"Did you know, faggot, that Calvin got a text from his big bro Brett? Asking about church?"

I shake my head, swilling Zane's cum.

"Calvin says he never gets text messages from his big bro anymore. Too busy screwing the Oberlin chicks and getting high, I guess. So why get a text now?"

I pull out of Calvin's ass for air, trying to speak through my gummed up throat.

"I don't know, Zane," I crackle, my head twisted sideways so I can see him out of the corner of my eye.

"I do," Zane says, squeezing my neck playfully. "Isn't it obvious? It's your hero. It's Chris! He feels bad about leaving you here. But he promised he wouldn't talk to any real authorities...he thinks Calvin's big bro is fair game." Zane snorts. "It's Chris's last gasp." He looks down at me, his eyes sarcastically wide. "DID YOU GO TO CHURCH? God...what do you even say to that?"

Zane reaches over and squeezes Calvin's ass. "Do you feel cared for now? Chris talked with your bro! Vaguely, of coutrse. Brett checked in with you. It's like they almost did something. On the bright side, I cleared his conscience. `Yup. Went to church, Brett! God's super cool. All is well! Smell you later.'" Zane laughs, chewing on my ear. "How does it feel, faggot? No one's coming to save you."

My ass opens, swallowing Zane's cock to the root.

"You are my religion now," I whisper. "I don't need them. I need you. You—you saved me, Zane."

"That's right, faggot!" Zane thunders, rising to a fever pitch. He laughs, pushing my head into Calvin's ass with both hands. "You are so fucking pathetic. You worthless toilet. I'm the best thing that ever happened to you, by far. You lucky-ass bitch."

He hammers the pins into me like nails, grunting.

Minute by minute ticks by; his blows strengthen; but there's no stopping him.

Not till his cum swims deep up both my faggot holes.

When his heartbeat slows, Zane dislodges my face from Calvin's ass. He tilts me so we make eye contact and stares. His expression is too incredulous to be described as disgust, too patronizing to be described as arrogance. He pats me on the hair, shaking his head slightly and chewing his tongue.

"You are mine, fag. I broke you."

I open my mouth to talk and he claps it shut.

"Don't bother saying anything."

I look at him, confused.

"Lick my hand, fag."

I stick my tongue out and lick the palm of his hand.

He moves his hand to the bed, holding it out, palm-up. He sneers at me, then bobs his head.

I sink my face into his hand and lick it again.

He squeezes my face as I prod his salty palm with my tongue.

Calvin crawls over toward me, looking down with a look of concern, the colorful ball still lodged in his mouth. "Hm Hm," he burbles.

Zane rips the ball gag off. "What is it, sweetie?"

"Hell, Zane," Calvin whimpers.

"Getting mouthy?" Zane asks, thumbing Calvin's lip. Calvin shakes his head, his mouth ajar. Zane pushes his thumb across Calvin's lip, then retreats, cupping the back of Calvin's head. Zane glares at Calvin. "Yes you are, punk."

Moments later, I feel Calvin's mouth on my ass. Calvin slurps messily on my hole as Zane puppeteers his head.

I suck on Zane's palm as he pushes in on my cheeks with his pinkie and thumb.

He pulls my face over to his cock. "Suck it clean, cunt-face."

The uncut corkscrew monster is coated with the slime from my ass.

He lets go of my head, and I fall forward, impaling my mouth.

I gulp on his cock, looking up into his iced-over eyes, pushing my ass up into Calvin's face, and trying like hell not to cum.

Calvin vacuums up Zane's load with his mouth and tongue, stringing it out of my hole. I hunker down on Zane's cock, which tastes like ass and sweat.

Zane chuckles. "Alpha male lions don't hunt, you know? They get strong enough and take over and get a pride of lionesses that slave away, doing all the hunting for them." He tucks one hand behind his head. "Sounds nice, right?"

I gurgle on his gross cock.

Zane reaches over to pat Calvin. "Good work, slave."

My eyes widen.

Zane's eyes flash. "You look worried, fag. What's wrong?"

I gaze up at him.

He slaps my face. "FUCKIN SPEAK UP, COCKSUCKER."

I try to talk, but it's completely muffled.

He laughs; his cock oscillates; I choke and gag and cough it up.

"God, you are so FUCKING DUMB; I love it." He slaps me again. "SPIT IT OUT, CUNT-FACE."

I sniff. "You--you're still going to rim me sometimes, right master?"

He snorts. "Maybe... if you earn it—I'll treat you some time." He ruffles my hair.

"It feels awesome—having you dominate me that way," I murmur. "Different from when I do it."

"I'm sure."

Calvin's phone buzzes from the bedside table. He perks up, abandoning my ass and crawling over toward it.

Zane sighs and snatches it before Calvin can reach it. "It's Brett, again.'" Zane absentmindedly guides me back down on his cock.

Out of the edge of my eye, I see Calvin wrinkle his nose.

Zane treads on, petting my hair. "Calvin--did I say you could stop sucking coin's ass?"

Calvin gapes. "Please give me my phone, Zane."

"SUCK ASS NOW, FAGGOT."

Calvin doesn't budge.

Zane shoves Calvin over, who freezes on his side in fetal position.

"I'll deal with you in a minute." Zane picks up the phone again, crafting a message. He pushes down on my head violently with the back of his hands. Then he sighs, tossing the phone to the side.

"I don't really need to get off again," Zane says, dragging a finger up my neck. "But sometimes, after I cum, my cock pulses--with a different urge."

My eyes widen again, but this time Zane doesn't encourage me to speak my mind. He smirks, raising his brow, as we look into each others' eyes. Then, he grinds my face against his pubes and balls, so that his cock digs at the back of my gagging throat.

I feel the heat of it before I taste it.

Acrid, biting, bitter piss.

I glug it down, trying to control my throat muscles, peering up into Zane's shimmering eyes. He gnaws on his tongue, his lip curling, as his eyes twinkle. I convulse. The bile rises in the back of my throat.

I shiver in place. My body takes on a will of its own; I can taste traces of vomit; I clench my fists; I have to stay in control. I have to...I need to...I must.

The shiver crawls down my spine at the notion of me losing control of my body.

Zane forces me to gulp through; my muscles go limp.

There is a hint of something novel in the flavor, almost like pumpernickel left out a bit too long.

"Keep swallowing, faggot. Wouldn't want to sully Calvin's sheets."

I drink down the last of it. Zane pulls out, and I gasp for breath. The air stings my throat.

"You look confused," Zane says, tousling my hair.

"It tastes...different," I whisper.

"It's because it's spiked," Zane says. "You said you didn't drink alcohol. But you drink piss. So I thought—if you won't drink alcohol direct—I could get you drunk second-hand."

The way the body regulates blood alcohol content—is by sending alcohol over to the bladder. Which meant that I--

"Fuck," I say, my mind spinning. My vision hazes over. "Fuck," I say again, laughing.

"Travis—why don't you get me another beer? Calvin and I need to have a heart-to-heart."

I get up, wobbling, and head to the kitchen, the inedible taste still swimming in my mouth.

I hear Calvin's muffled wails as I swivel and open the fridge. Everything is stupidly harder with my hands cuffed.

I root around for a beer, barely reaching it. I close the fridge by jutting out my ass into the door. Then I hurry back.

When I return, Calvin is face-down on the bed, his hands tied, his ass beet-red, and a tear swimming down his cheek. Zane raises his brow at me, smirking.

I hand Zane the can and he pops it open. "Get next to Calvin. Faggot pussy position."

Tentatively, I lie face-down down next to Calvin, shoving my ass up, awaiting judgment.

"I found another toy in Calvin's box, coin," Zane says. I feel something smooth prod my hole, then slide inside with a pop. "It's a butt-plug, which is a lot like a dildo." He slips it in and out. "Except when I shove it in," he pushes it in as far as it goes, "it stays stuck there. You can't shit it out. You have to pull it out. Which you can't do right now either." He flicks the handcuffs, making them clink.

I wiggle my ass, sighing.

"You look disappointed, bitch. What? Did you expect me to beat your ass to a pulp, like I did to Calvin? You didn't misbehave."

I stay silent.

"ANSWER QUESTIONS WHEN I ASK, PUNK!" He bitch-slaps my ass so hard that it stings.

"Fuck," I whimper. "Zane—I want whatever you want."

"You know what I want? For Calvin to get on the same level as you. And you are going to help me do that." He unleashes several more blows, pulses of pain jolting through me.

"Stop it," Calvin says softly.

"Such a cliché nice guy," Zane says, clawing at my ass before slapping it again. A tear rolls down my cheek. "Apparently, Calvin needs a crash course in who's in charge. That means Travis gets to be a whipping boy from now on. If Calvin doesn't do as I say, Travis will absorb the punishment. How does that sound Travis?"

"Pretty good, Zane," I whisper.

"You are such a fucking faggot, I can't believe it." He pulls me up by the wrists, shoving my face into his armpit. "My pits get really grungy after I use you. I guess you can help me out with that, too."

Slowly but surely, I get drunker and drunker off of Zane's body.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Calvin's lip tremble. The wheels are turning in his brain, though they've long since stopped in mine. Crossed sweat settles along my brow and gets in my eyes, and I clench them shut. I moan and lick over and over.

I sink deeper and deeper into the void of what I've become.

Curiously—the last thing that keeps me from going completely under—the one thing that I cling to—even after I've realized the hopeless depths I've sunk--is the intensity in Zane's eyes.

Just the sound of it makes me flinch like I have been shot.

Calvin's beeping clock. Is it Monday already?

The weekend is a groggy blur. I had been funneling downward, caught in Zane's whirlpool of power. Zane got drunker; I got drunker; in that sense, our status moved uniformly. But otherwise, the distance between us magnified.

Zane had Calvin and I sleep on the floor—nude--with our hands bound. I suppose it was an improvement over the hammock. We even got a blanket! Sleeping had been one of our rewards for helping to reorder the living room. It was the first reward, in fact, that didn't involve sucking on Zane's body.

Zane enjoyed Calvin's bed. He looks content it, even now.

Is Zane going to let us go to school?

Probably. I don't think he wants to be truant, on top of everything else he's been in trouble for.

And with Calvin's parents coming back tonight, the group project ruse we had leaned on would need to be shelved. Or moved to Zane's house, I suppose.

He opens one tired eye, yawning and stretching his muscles till they glisten.

I smirk. It's like I'm more worried about Zane's problems than what has happened to me.

My new way of thinking comes so naturally.

He swings his feet over, pushing down on my face, ice in his eyes. "Take a shower faggot. You're fucking disgusting."

I lick the sole of his foot.

"Did you even hear me?"

I nod, sucking on his toes.

"What did I say?"

I let his foot slip out of my mouth. "You said I'm fucking disgusting and I need a shower."

"So what are you waiting for?"

"Nothing, sir."

I scramble to my feet, trying to ignore my prominent boner, which bounces as I walk.

Zane shadows me, towing a half-asleep Calvin along with him. "Lie down in the tub, coin," Zane says.

I sprawl out in the tub.

Zane steps over me; his cock dangles in front of my eyes. My morning wood jumps, stretching so hard that it hurts. I sit up, lean in, and kiss his cock. Zane backhands me and I collapse to the tub floor. He laughs.

"Wait for permission, bitch."

"Yessir."

He stares down at me, his smile growing slowly.

"Open your mouth and don't move till I say."

I open wide.

Zane turns on the shower; hot water splatters my face. "Calvin, get in here, we don't have all day."

Calvin hesitates as water fills my mouth, spilling out the sides.

Calvin steps into the tub. Zane prods my chest with his foot, making me cough up a bit of water. Their bodies shield chunks of the stream, casting icy scarcity on me, like trees slinging shadows. Uneven patches of water sprinkle through. Zane steps aside and the water floods the rest of me.

"Alright, you can get up, faggot."

I stand up.

"Travis--I will shampoo your pissy, beer-stained hair, but no soap allowed. If you fags think my body ought to be cleaned, fix it with your tongues."

I sink into Zane's chest, spraying it like a dolphin.

Master pulls me into his pit; I spit up the last of the water. Through the corner of my eye, I see Calvin mirroring my motions.

We lap at the harsh sweat till it fades, our minds dissolving with it.

Zane smirks, bucking out. He squirts shampoo into my hair and rubs his palm around in circles, guiding my head here and there in the process.

Our tongues roam his harsh biceps, his dense pectorals, and his sharply cut abdominals. We split the delicious treasure before us in half.

Zane pushes us down to our knees.

Zane swivels, so that Calvin is inches from his cock and I'm facing Zane's bubble butt. Zane's ass distends as he drags Calvin's face around his crotch. I burrow into Zane's musky hole; I groan and lose myself in it. After a minute, at Zane's urging, I crawl through his legs. I shiver as I look up at his fat uncut cock and big sack.

I lap at his balls, my tongue entangling with Calvin's as we absorb the meaty flavor.

I move down further, occasionally wrapping my head around so I can taste the sweat running over Zane's quads and calves. I bow down to the floor, lapping at Zane's foot.

Zane steps on me with his free foot; water pours down the sides of my face. I collapse into Zane's toes, my dick smacks into the porcelain, and I feel self-conscious: the butt-plug and my stretched ass extrude into the air. Zane kicks me off and shoves Calvin down, whose legs slide out from under him as he flops to the floor.

"I think I'm clean, don't you?" Zane says, pulling his cock away from us. "Why don't you two fags clean each other?"

Zane frees our wrists before he steps out of the tub. He towels off his slick body as he walks away, not bothering to close the door. Calvin and I sprawl out in the tub, opposite one another, our knees bent in the cramped space.

My feet and Calvin's head are by the drain.

There is a moment when we both chuckle at the craziness of it all.

"It's been so long since I have spent the night here," I say softly.

Calvin squishes and hunches over so his head is closer to my midriff. "I missed you, Travis," he whispers. He leans in and kisses my chest.

I gasp. My face contorts.

I hadn't thought about Calvin that way for days. But he was itching to break through to me.

Calvin starts to move over my body. After a brief hesitation period, I mirror what he does with his mouth, moaning softly. We nibble one another's nipples. I dig my tongue into his belly button and he giggles. His dick is hanging just beyond my lips, and mine points up at his. I feel his lips around mine and I shudder at the forbidden touch. I move up and take him deep down my throat.

Slowly, our dicks roll in and out of each other's mouths. I close my eyes and moan around his warm meat. I grope his ass and pull him in deeper. He starts to gyrate into my face as he sucks me.

Suddenly, I'm thrown backwards. I collide with the side wall and collapse in a heap on my side. Zane stands above us, blocking the light.

"Fags don't suck fag dick. You suck me."

"You left us high and dry, Zane," I say, looking up at him.

"Have a little self-discipline, cunt-face. That's several fuck-ups this morning already. It's like you want to get punished. Can't you go five minutes without my cock inside you?"

I stare at him, sensing that he set us up to fail. My dick is screaming in my mind, sick of being teased and taunted. But it needs to learn, like the rest of me.

I belong to Zane now.

I hang my head.

"I'm sorry. I'll try to be better."

"That's the spirit, faggot," Zane says, rubbing my head. He sticks out an upside-down baseball cap with three power bars in it. "Go ahead. Take one," he says. He turns off the shower stream with his free hand.

Calvin and I each grab a power bar, exchanging a soft look.

"Time to go."

We get up and towel each other off. Zane surprises me by forcing the hat over my head. I look at myself in the mirror.

Who am I?

Not the same creature from a few months ago, surely.

I've built some muscle. My eyes harbor a touch of Zane's misanthropy.

The hat is red on the back as well as the bill, but white on the front. There is a green symbol sewn over the white part that I cannot identify. It looks like the Penrose Triangle—the illusory key-chain that Hiro gave me for Christmas.

"What does that symbol mean?" I ask softly.

"It means I am out of your league," Zane says. "Did I stutter before? We need to fucking go. Now. Get dressed already."

Calvin and I rush to get ready and make our way into Zane's truck.

He drives recklessly to school, his mouth running on the way. "Coin, you keep that plug in your ass and that hat on your head all day. If a teacher makes you take it off or if you need to take a shit, fine. But you put your gear back on as soon as you can. I want you to have a constant reminder that I own your ass and I own your head. And don't you fucking forget it."

"Yes sir," I say softly.

I turn to Calvin after a while.

"This is a mokimon trainer cap, isn't it?"

He nods.

"How did you get it?"

"Oh you know. Just had to send in a million postcards."

"Shut up back there!" Zane snarls.

Calvin and I go quiet.

Zane pulls his truck into the parking lot, swerves into his space, and powers it off. I feel a pang of longing as Calvin splits.

With him gone—that last shard of playfulness vanishes.

Zane holds his backpack up to my face. Something is tucked into the folds of it so no one can see. I recognize it from the smell. It's his sweaty, grungy, piss-and-cum-stained jockstrap.

Zane's essence washes over me; and I shiver, trying to keep my balance, as my mind switches modes at the worst possible time.

I stick out my tongue to lick the jockstrap, but Zane pulls it away. I stifle a moan.

I feel the buttplug prod my inner ass; I sense the weaving tendrils of the hat on my head. I wonder if Mr. Andrews will write me up for another dress code violation. Or for having a big, fat boner.

It doesn't really matter to me anymore.

Zane breathes in my ear. "Don't forget your pledge of allegiance."

I need to control myself. I can't have a hard-on. Not in the middle of school. Not when everyone already thinks (knows?) I am a pervert.

Although that's starting to matter less as well.

Everything is.

Except one thing.

I just want the day to end, so I can worship Zane again.

The morning bell sounds and we find our seats. My mind floats far away from the glib announcements.

Then, the class stands, and we look to the flag.

My words come out quiet, but different.

"I pledge allegiance—to the ass---of the multifaceted Zane."

I get a few strange looks. I don't think people can really hear what I am saying, not over the choral mantra they've spoken since their childhood, since before they understood what it meant. Nor do they really care.

"And to the power it represents."

But they can sense that my words are different. An uncomfortable kind of difference. One that sticks out like a sore thumb.

"One divine master, unquestionable."

The words taste good on my lips. Lips that I can only hope Zane appreciates.

"With enslavement and judgment for all."

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