Taste of Power by: Krazytop ---
Part XX
King of the hill. Rise up, become the lord of the land, the most respected and powerful man there is. But rise too far, and the Sword of Damocles falls. Such is the paradox of power—the rise is both coveted and maligned.
Do culture-monkeys like Calvin want me to stand up for myself? Does that mean I do everything they say?
Do people push during courtship partly to make sure their consort is strong enough to push back? Or do they merely push to settle the status quo?
It seems to me, the pushing colonizes the ground rules. I seek out a guy that pushes me, that stretches me, that flaunts ambitious proclivities with ambivalence to how it affects me. I expect that guy to push me as far as possible, establishing the gulf in status between us like a rough negotiator, without making the arrangement untenable.
To me, eroticism is that gulf.
In this sense, Zane has achieved something outstanding. He has negotiated me into a corner, into a place where he demands utter submission, where the gulf between us is infinite.
But he did so in a way that I have no interest in breaking the arrangement. And thus the things that should have been deal-breakers—the disrespect, the social deviations—exist instead as dimensions of his total dominance over every aspect of what I am.
Mr. Andrews glares at my hat and points to the door.
Like last time I was sent out, I pass by the counselor's office and head to the bathroom. But this time, I don't bother to wash my face. There's nothing I'm looking to clarify.
So instead I sit on a toilet with the stall door open, idling, staring into the mirror.
Minutes later, Zane enters.
"Glad to see me?" He walks up, stands over me, and drops the wooden bathroom pass at his feet.
"Yes, sir," I say, gazing up into his eyes.
Zane slams the stall door and locks it. "Swell. Mr. Andrews is starting to get pissy about my bathroom breaks." He swivels back to me, leans forward into my face, and grinds his pulped up, jean-clad crotch against my cheek.
I wait, motionless, with my mouth half-open.
"You want my cock, faggot?"
"Yes sir."
"Beg for it."
"Please, Zane," I say. My voice is monotone. The whimpering, the whining I once engaged in—those now strike me as the embellishments of an attention whore. The dedication Zane instills in me runs deeper.
When we are alone together, no showmanship is needed.
"Please, Zane, let me suck your cock."
He shucks down his pants, grinding my face around in his smelly jockstrap.
"Please, Zane," I repeat. "Please."
He pulls down the jockstrap. He wraps his palm around the base of his uncut corkscrew cock and drags it across my face, smashing it against my nose. I smell traces of smegma and cum and piss, and my eyes roll back into my head.
"Lick my balls, cunt-face."
I lap at his big, grungy balls, my tongue lolling out of my mouth. My vision refocuses, and I gaze up into his piercing green eyes.
Between each lick, I croak one word.
"Please."
"Please what?" he growls.
"Please--breed my cunt."
"Which one?"
I grab his ass, burying my face in his balls and licking madly.
"Am I supposed to pound your cunt of a face? Or your cunt of an ass?"
"Fuck my face," I breathe.
"What if I want some ass?"
"Then wreck my faggot ass."
"Which is it?"
I kiss the shaft of his cock.
He slaps my face. "You are such a disgusting faggot."
"Disgust and lust aren't opposites, remember?" I whisper.
I lick his cock slowly from the base to the head, clamping down on it. He slaps my face again, so hard that it stings. "Did I say you could suck my cock?" I nuzzle into him, brushing his shaft with my lips; he grabs my hair, pulling me back. "Get off my cock, bitch. Jesus."
I look into his eyes again, tonguing the air between us.
He palms my mouth shut and I lick it slowly.
"You misbehaved this morning. You can't just suck on a random dong when you get horny. Especially given that you will probably be eternally horny from now on."
He pulls his hand away from my mouth.
"I don't want anyone but you, Zane."
"You can never `have me.' You BELONG TO ME. That means if I want to fuck you, I will. But you can't just demand my cock whenever your balls itch."
I nod, licking my lips.
"Travis—are you familiar with the concept of flooding?"
I shake my head.
"Well the idea is, if someone is OBSESSED with something, they can be desensitized to it by being drowned in it. It doesn't always work, like in the case of addiction. For instance, right now, you aren't desensitized to me."
I nod.
"But, take a fear for example. What are you afraid of? Really?"
"Uh—"
"Don't be shy," Zane says. "First thing you think of."
Chris, twisting the chain around my neck till I collapse. Zane, holding me down, even with the bile rising in the back of my throat...
"Vomiting," I say, turning red. "I don't like—losing control of my body that way."
"I'm not surprised," Zane says, gripping my neck. "I am glad you learned to overcome your gag reflex for me--despite yourself. That's the sign of a good faggot."
I nod, tonguing my lip.
He carries on. "The idea of flooding is, you lock someone in a tank with a bunch of spiders, or whatever their fear is, and then, after they become terrified, the sensation of intrigue goes away. It can work on food, too. If someone eats so much of something they get sick off of it, they won't like it anymore. That's why I have to ration myself, you see? I can't just say `yes' to you every time, because you are too much of a faggot to know when to stop. You'll overdose."
"I trust your judgment, Zane. You know what's best for me."
"You're loyal to me?"
"Yes."
"And you are sorry about this morning?"
"Yes. Of course."
"That's good. You need to understand that I am your Master now. No matter where you are. No matter where I am. Capiche?"
"Yes, master."
He turns around, reaching back to pull my hair. "Go ahead and eat my ass, faggot. You've earned it."
I bury my face in his dank ass, sniffing and licking and sucking.
His ass cheeks push out and envelop me as he emits a slow, hissing fart.
I breathe in his flavor, my superfluous dick hard as a rock. I know better than to move. Instead, I keep tonguing his hole, as Zane's potent essence locks down my senses.
Zane roots out my exceptional ability. Not a power, exactly, but a tolerance for degradation matched only by his lust for it. He can flood me as much as he wants.
And that may be the only sense that a zero like me is worthy of a God like him.
I lick his ass again and again as he wrings the back of my hollowed out faggot head.
Throughout the day, the rest of my teachers let me wear the hat. The plug barbs my ass, distracting me constantly. At one point between classes, Master grabs my ass and I freeze, biting my lip.
He hadn't let me get off, and worse, he hadn't let me get him off, so my brain is fritzing out.
He lets go of my ass and smirks as I hang my head.
By the time wrestling practice rolls around, I feel so edgy and exhausted and confused that I can barely stand up anymore.
"Travis?"
Deep, dark brown eyes. Prominent cheek-bones, one lined with a subtle scar. Frayed, long corn-rows of hair. Chocolate skin. Greasy muscles, whose sheen takes on a natural glare at the crown of each hill.
Damerae.
I stare decidedly at my own feet.
"Travis," he says again. "During the pledge this morning—Cynthia thought she heard you say you pledge to—the wrong thing. You were just trolling Mr. Andrews again, right? Like with that hat and earring?"
"Who knows, bro," a coquettish voice says. I look over. A toothy grin, sinewy tan skin, a new tattoo on his shoulder—of a shark. His first ink, to my knowledge. Eduardo whistles. "He can't even look at you, bro. Is it because you think he's hot stuff, cundango? Or did he hit a nerve?" Eduardo laughs, pushing me. "I asked you a question, stupid."
"Come on, Lalo," Calvin says from across the room, reviving an old nickname. "Why do you smother Travis with so much attention anyway? What's it to you?"
"Because there's a hen in the cockhouse. He's out of his element. I'm still getting used to pretending that he's one of us, bro. Fucking sue me."
"Language, Eduardo." Coach looks over at us from the edge of the row of lockers.
"Sorry coach," Eduardo says, backing off of me with his hands up.
"Alright, clowns," Coach barks. "Break up by weight class. I have some health and wellness quizzes to grade in my office. Then I gotta get out of here early for my daughter's dance recital." He glares at my earring and hat, but decides not to press the issue, maybe because Eduardo had grilled me enough. He looks especially grumpy today.
Usually Coach sidestepping means that the head of each weight class leads activities. Calvin and I share a look, unsure if we should congregate around Chris or not.
Master rounds the corner, sneering at us, dropping his subdued conversation with a downcast Chris, who is keeping a cold distance. "Eduardo, go get Hiro. You will be working out with us today."
Chris wrinkles his lip. He looks beat—worn down—like he slept less than I did. He doesn't raise an argument.
Like me.
It doesn't surprise me that Eduardo jumps at the chance to be a part of our group. Like Master said to me this morning—everyone knows Zane's in another league. It's an honor to be with him.
To serve him.
Eduardo returns with Hiro moments later, who gives me a searching look.
"Coach hardly lets Travis wrestle during practice anymore," Zane says. "Let's change that. Let's give him a treat. Don't bother putting on singlets. Or shirts."
Eduardo scowls at him. "I'm not touching the cundango without my shirt on," he spits. "I don't want him to blow his wad on me."
Zane slams Eduardo into the wall. "If I say no shirts, it means no shirts. If he grabs your balls, then punch him in the face again. He needs to learn how to keep his shit under control if he wants to be capable of helping our team at the meet."
"Chill out, Zane," Damerae says.
"I'll chill out when we are the best team in the state."
Time crawls as we walk down the long hallway from the locker room to the room with the mats.
Zane pairs us off and rings the bell.
It's difficult to stay in control with a bunch of sweaty, muscular, handsome boys flexing into each other—and me.
Master keeps barking advice, admonishment, and in my case, insults. "C'mon, Travis. Don't take such obvious pleasure in being a loser. This is the wrestling mat, not the bedroom. Keep your priorities straight."
With their constant teasing adding up, and the plug still prickling my ass, it's getting difficult to control my breathing.
But I focus. Despite Zane's gibes, I pin Hiro, get Eduardo in a lock, and somehow pull Calvin's legs over his head. My match with Damerae is close, but Zane declares Damerae the winner.
Chris pins me with ease.
"Alright, that didn't completely suck."
Coming from Master, that was the highest praise. I smile at him, but he doesn't return it. He just squeezes the back of my neck.
"Alright, clowns, get some water."
The others head off to the water fountain on the opposite side of the room. I hear Eduardo's fading voice as he gives Chris beef for letting his hair fall in wavy bangs today. "That's some shampoo commercial shit."
I turn to Master.
"Sir—I am afraid Eduardo's prediction will come true. You could let me rub one out in the bathroom, and then I won't cream myself in front of everyone."
Zane blows a little spit bubble, breaking it with his middle finger. Then he rubs the spit over my lips.
I stand there, mortified. We're on the other side of the room as the others, with my back toward them, so they probably can't make out what's going on. If they happen to be looking this way.
But—fuck...
"Lick your lips, faggot. There's lots to be excited about."
He saunters over to the others.
I ball my fist. I might as well get a bit of water myself.
Slowly, I lick the spit off my lips.
"Football field!" Zane says, smirking.
Hiro and Damerae shrug at one another as Zane beckons for us to follow out the side door.
Master has us run the bleachers. After a few cycles, my legs are killing me and the plug is slipping out of my hole. I take my hat off to wipe my brow but Zane slams it back down on my head. His mouth is on my ear. "Don't take it off, faggot," he growls. He twists it around so it is facing backwards. "In mokimon, at any given time, you take care of six animals and their balls. I'm going to show you what happens when you play with monsters."
Is that how he saw it? He was training us like mokimon?
He reaches into my pocket, blowing hot air into my ear as he gropes my hardening dick through my work-out clothes. "Don't lose too much control, faggot." Zane releases me and I run up the bleachers again.
Eduardo catches his breath, glaring at Zane. "Zane, bro. We almost done? Practice shoulda got out by now."
"There's still a little bit more," Zane says, leering. "We have—a competition, back in the weight room. It should be just about empty now, don't you think?"
It would have to be. Coach frowns upon betting. It came to a head when Eduardo pulled a muscle trying to keep up with Zane a few months back (and lost twenty bucks and a sandwich). It's against the rules anyway. Coach can't really stop the friendly rivalries, but Zane has a way of stretching limits.
We cross the field, the wind making me shudder.
Eduardo tries the door. Then he bangs his fist against it. "Good going, Zane! Now we are locked out. My bag is still in there! Coach probably thought everyone left for the day."
"I hope he did," Zane says. "Things will get more fun without him."
Zane pulls a lock-pick out of his pocket and casually manipulates the door, forcing it open.
"Coin," Zane says, slapping my ass. The plug vibrates slightly inside me and my face contorts. "Check to see if Coach is gone, then meet us in the weight room."
"Yes, sir," I say, jumping to attention. I turn red. I hadn't meant to use that word in front of the others.
"Damn," Eduardo says. "You have him trained like a bitch."
"He is what he is," Zane says.
I don't argue.
I follow Zane's orders.
The halls, the locker room, the showers, coach's office—all eerily empty.
When I get back to the weight room, Zane is loading up the dumbbell.
He promises a prize to the person that can lift the most.
I surprise myself by outlasting Hiro, Eduardo, and Calvin, but I hit a roadblock in my mind once the weights get over one hundred and sixty. People in our weight class weigh that much! It's always seemed like a physical abomination—animals lifting more than their own weight.
An ant can carry a leaf ten times bigger than itself.
But insects make my skin crawl.
I spread out flat on the bench, willing my dick to stay soft, begging my mind to think about anything but the man standing above me.
Every time a comet hits the Earth, it moves it—if only slightly.
Small can move big. It's physically possible.
Though--biology isn't purely physical, anyway.
It's chemical.
And that's where the true power lies.
Zane stands over me, spotting me, his cock and balls slipping around in his jock, which I glimpse, under his shorts. I look up at him. His tree tattoo grows high into the air above me; leaves dance as the shimmering canvas flexes beneath it, shifting the world like a rainy gust of wind.
The fire and ice of Zane's yin-yang moon tattoo glint at me.
But the biggest distraction, is the faint smell of him.
Calvin had been spotting me before, but Zane had sent him over to get more water.
I can do it. I can do the ten reps. I glare up at Zane.
"One. Two. Three. Four."
He leers at me.
Each push burns my muscles; in my mind I hear them screaming. But the little voice in the back of my head has got me this far.
There's honor in trying when you still have a chance—but there's an entirely different honor in trying when you don't.
A rebellious brand that sears your heart.
"Five. Six. Seven."
Master reaches down and grazes my neck.
Blood congregates in my dick.
Fuck!
My confidence levels like a house of cards.
My arms wobble; what I am floods back. I'm not one of them. I'm not.
I'm a faggot.
I'm nothing.
I can't lift anymore. I whimper, and Master helps me re-rack the weight, smiling.
I collapse on one of the padded benches. Calvin says something cheery but it doesn't really register as I stare at the ceiling.
Damerae lasts a few more rounds, and then, it's just Zane and Chris, lifting deep into the two-hundreds like it's nothing.
At last, Zane throws in the towel, and we learn Chris's prize.
Tickets to Cedar Point.
Zane had won them days before, he claims, for guessing how many M & Ms were in the counselor's jar. He didn't seem to mind passing his spoils on, having advanced to more adult fare.
For whatever reason, it wasn't the prize I had expected.
Zane smirks, seeming to read me. "As for the rest of you—there is a consolation prize. C'mon, you clowns."
Zane saunters back to the locker room and we follow. I sit on the locker room bench, still winded and dazed. Zane clicks his locker open and pulls out a six-pack of beer.
"I borrowed this from your fridge this morning, Calvin. Hope you don't mind."
"Should we?" Calvin asks softly. "On school property?"
"Who cares?" Zane says.
"There are seven of us," Damerae says, "but only six beers."
"That's alright," Zane says, rubbing my head. He chuckles, tilting my head up at his. "Coin here doesn't drink. Isn't that right?"
"That's right sir," I say. I blush again.
"Seriously man," Eduardo says. "I was just joking before. But are you, like—ACTUALLY--Zane's bitch?"
"Well?" Zane asks. "Are you, Travis?"
Everyone stares at me.
"Yes sir."
"Maricon," Eduardo spits.
"What the fuck, Zane?" Damerae says. "What the hell did you do to him?"
Zane smirks wordlessly, passing out the cans one at a time. The others stay standing, drinking in a circle around me. Most of them look to be on edge, at least at first. They aren't really bad boys. Sometimes with groups of people, especially around my age, a mob mentality can take root at the drop of a pin.
It's not exactly that people who wouldn't misbehave suddenly start to. It's more like the definition of misbehavior changes. People like Chris behave the way they do, at least in part, because they trust in the power and safety of conformity. Within a given group, that's more or less what being `good' is. It's just a matter of how widely people draw their circle of inclusion.
A good Earthling knows Men are created equal. But the aliens in sci-fi films better keep to their own world if they don't want their spaceships shot to hell.
A good all-American knows Americans deserve rights. But the foreigners better stay out of the country if they don't want to be thrown out on their asses.
A good jock knows Studs honor the bro code. But the pussies better stay in their locker room if they don't want to be popped.
Casualties are a fact of life, you see. The kind of fact you either understand or fall victim to.
The moment passes, my qualms settling down. People start to hand Zane their empty cans, red-faced from the workout and the wrong kind of hydration.
"Shower," Zane says icily, stashing the empty cans in his pack.
Hiro finally gets a word in, sizing up Zane. "Are you sure that Travis is—comfortable showering with the rest of us? He does seem to avoid it, most of the time."
"Oh, I'm sure he is comfortable," Zane says, sliding his hand down my cheek and pinching the earring. "He doesn't mind at all."
Damerae raises his eyebrows, but eventually the group starts to peel off their clothes. I look away from them, finding my locker and stripping down with deliberate sluggishness.
Zane pulls me in, flexing around me, inundating me. He's so sweaty after the workout. I'm not sure what to do. Should I pretend like I don't like it?
He pins my head against the cold locker with one hand and massages my ass with the other.
"Zane," I whisper. The others are already in the shower, thankfully. "Zane—"
I push my ass out toward him reflexively.
"What do you want, faggot?"
"When will you let me get off, Master?" I say, shaking in place. Frustration courses through me.
He pads my ass, toying with me. "Maybe never."
He smashes my face up against the locker, stuffing his jockstrap in my mouth. "Do you like that? I bet you want me to fuck you right here. But there's a plug in your ass. Too bad. Guess you'll just have to stay frustrated forever."
I push my ass out toward him, but he ignores it, releasing me. I try to hide my face as a tear rolls down my cheek.
As I turn my head, the jockstrap droops out of my mouth.
Somebody has doubled back from the shower, his face flushed, his mouth agape, and his eyes brightly staring—stunned—at my pathetic, true form.
Hiro.
I'm a faggot, Hiro.
I'm a pussy punk bitch.
And Zane is my God.
Fucking sue me.
--- Feedback keeps me in the mood to write and brainstorm and is always appreciated. :) email: krazytop@gmail.com tumblr: krazytop.tumblr.com