Taste of Power

Taste of Power by: Krazytop ---

Part XXXIII

At the end of a battle, there's a whore in the barracks.

At the end of a war, there's a parade.

Life is not a constant fight. No one can sustain that.

Instead, each person navigates their own cycle of fighting and indulgence, of expending and recouping, of resisting and accepting.

I grew tired of fighting long ago, convinced there was nothing left to drain. But Zane reminded me that nothingness can be split in two; it can rip itself apart only to be drawn together; it can fabricate a universal collateral.

It's as Damerae said. There are so many possible ways to live life, to run the things that can be run. People are rarely in a position to vote for exactly what they want, but rather, they are in a position to empower the philosophy that sits best with them.

I've been told for so long to reach for the stars, as though I can shape a perfect world around me, or a perfect version of myself. It's been drummed into me to accept nothing less.

But that is not life. Even if the fight is not yet over, even though the war is not yet won, the battle ebbs and flows. There will be moments when I need to feel okay while things are not okay, when I need to rest though the challenge itself does not.

A battle has been waged over the human body. Which colors and shapes are to be put on a pedestal, what roles each can play. A battle that at times seems nothing more than much ado about nothing. But people took differences that could have meant nothing and contrived something. They contrived a system. And any system that exists will have people that exploit it.

Of course I want to fight the system. It fucked me over. But I can't fight forever. I'm only human...

I need to work the system too. To build my muscles, to have a curriculum vitae, to forge a personal brand. To get a job that pays money. To impress people enough to indulge enough.

It's as Chris said, too. I'm just nice enough so that people let me be mean to them.

Aren't we all?

When Chris calls me a faggot with his cock deep up my ass, the battle is over. Those are fighting words, but there is no fight in me.

In that moment, I know that not everything in the world is okay, but I also know that sometimes, it has to feel okay while things are not okay.

A paradoxical okey-dokey. A paradokey. That's not a word, but it should be.

I could fight being a faggot; I could fight it tooth and nail.

But why not indulge in it?

I hope Chris fucks my faggot ass like a whore in the barracks tonight.

The soft clay from the wheel rolls through my palms.

"Gay people are wolves in sheep's clothing," Cynthia says, not looking my way. "As soon as they get the thing they chase, they brainstorm a new set of demands to chase after. Because the chase fills the emptiness in their lives. They need it. People keep giving them what they want out of pity and exhaustion, but they shouldn't. Enough is enough. The pastors were right. They are destroying the moral fabric of our country. When will it end?"

"Do you fear things perpetuating?" I ask, keeping my eyes on the wheel. "If you are so afraid of that...then why breed in the first place? Why argue it? Why not just let things go?"

"Because maybe that's all there is."

"You mean it fills the emptiness in your life?"

That would have elicited a dull roar, not long ago.

But the school can't maintain constant shock and outrage forever. I don't know if any emotion is that sustainable--except perhaps depression.

The last few weeks have been difficult in their own way.

I still have classes with Zane. And he doesn't shy away from me, like you might expect. He always tries to catch my eye. But I don't trust myself to look at him.

No one on the wrestling team will tell me what happened that day, after Chris and I left. It's like they've instituted some kind of gag order.

The most I get out of Hiro is an admission that his mother looked over Zane's files, as though she might need a refresher—she helped with his defense, last time. For the moment it remains a mystery whether Hiro's tight-lipped nature is due to his traditions, his sense of attorney-client privilege, or some kind of hybrid of the two.

But I figure that Zane's not ending up back behind bars. Not on my account, anyway. There's this sense of complicity amongst the wrestling team, a sense of—for lack of a better word—togetherness, that makes the blame sort of bounce and fizzle until it implicates everyone and then, oddly, no one. The lines drawn around teams and countries and planets—those oscillate and disorient just long enough so that people confuse good and bad and have to start their thought process over.

Sometimes Chris and Calvin will allude to wrestling season next year, trying to open the door for me to rejoin the team—but I don't see how that's possible.

I'm afraid of Zane.

I'm sure that's true.

But I'm even more afraid of myself. I'm afraid of the versions of each other we animate. He edged me to the cliff of my sanity—and I crawled back, bit by bit.

I know he could take me to the edge in an instant. The state of mind he crafted for me lies in wait.

So I can't even look at him—lest he transport me back to the mountaintop; to the pinpoint on the map that dictates where the river cuts the lines in the earth.

What if Zane pushes me off the edge of the world?

My ears seem to split, and a moment later, I understand.

Fire alarm.

The others clear out of the Art Room. I can't expect them to wait for me as I take a moment to rinse the clay off my hands at the sink.

Not that they even want to be near me.

I smear a bit of marbled water on my face.

I look up slowly, sure that my eyes deceive me. He can't be—he couldn't be—looming in the doorway.

For the briefest of moments. I catch his eyes—green, full of life and death.

I turn away.

"Zane," I whisper.

"I've been meaning to get you alone for quite some time, Travis."

"Zane—what if there's really a fire?"

"It would be a pretty big coincidence, since I pulled the alarm." Zane clicks the door shut behind him.

Alone. With Zane.

Even the noise abruptly leaves us.

"Miss me?

"Zane—"

"Shut up," Zane says, grabbing my head and pushing me down to my knees.

"Zane—"

He slaps my face.

"Been blowing Chris much?"

I had tried again, many times. But every time...I drowned in my thoughts.

I shake my head.

"Of course," Zane says, beaming. "You couldn't shake my training that easy." He pets my hair. "A cocksucker who can't suck cock. What a quandary. Want me to solve it for you?"

He unzips his jeans; his smelly, filled-out jock hangs inches from my face.

I stare at it.

"Suck my cock, faggot. Swallow whatever the fuck I put in your mouth--or I'll carve your fucking balls off."

I nod slowly. I haven't been able to suck cock since last time I was on my knees between his legs...I have no choice...my dick stiffens against the cage...

"Don't forget your REAL master."

There's nothing I can do to stop him, is there?

Part of me figured Calvin and Brett didn't really stand a chance of keeping him down. Assuming they ever got the best of him. They must have, right? He was cornered. Not even Zane could Houdini his way out of that one.

And yet...He always had this invincible quality...

Zane frees his angry-looking, thick, uncut cock...my mouth waters...

"Travis?"

I hear Chris's voice calling faintly from the distance.

"Travis?"

Zane starts to fade out like a ghost. "No, no—don't leave now," he says, fury etching his features. "Fucking tease." He smiles, shaking his head. "Just when it was getting good."

"Travis?" Chris calls one more time.

--

Chris shakes me, and I open my eyes. "Wh—what?"

"You were tossing and turning in your sleep. Another nightmare?"

"I think so," I say, rubbing my eyes.

When did the dream start and end?

I remember beating Zane.

And it's true I haven't been able to suck Chris's cock in the intervening weeks. Granted, I have no complaints with how he's been fucking my ass lately.

It's equally true I've been avoiding Zane's eyes.

It was all real—wasn't it?

Right up until the fire drill.

I clutch Chris's leg, sculpting the muscles I find there.

"I want to suck your cock, Chris."

"We've been through this several times, Travis..."

"This time, I want to try something different. It's called flooding. Do you know the concept?"

Chris shakes his head.

"It's when you take something someone is afraid of—and drown them with it—till they grow numb to it. Immune to it. Liberated from it."

"You want me to make you suck my cock."

"That's right. I want you to force me, and keep forcing me, until I like it."

"What if you have another one of your episodes?"

"Then cradle my head in your hands and keep your cock in my mouth till it's over. Then hump my skull."

"And if you shake your head `no'?"

"Then nod your head `yes'."

"And if you really decide you want to stop?"

"Then I'll bite."

Chris glares at me; I lean in and nibble on his waistband.

"Please Chris—" I say, sliding down his silk boxers. "Please."

It slips out, already half-hard.

"You know you can't handle it," Chris says. "Haven't you taunted me enough?"

"Make me, Chris. Please—make it happen."

"You get this is frustrating, Travis?"

"I know. But I can't give up...not on this."

"Fine. But I'm gonna tie up your arms first. I don't want you flailing and hitting me when you go crazy."

He tightens the twine around my wrists, binding them in place.

He grips me by the hair, making me look into his eyes. "I'm going to make you suck my cock."

I stare up at him as I close my lips around the head.

Goblins cackle, scurrying around, smaller this time, as though from the distance; spots crawl around my mind, like ants on a counter...

Water fills my lungs, my mind is black...

Zane laughs and laughs, I can only see his tattoo--half water, half fire, scorching me...

He slaps me across the face.

No—not Zane. Chris.

"Travis," he growls.

I come half-way out of the fog, gazing at Chris, the head of his cock still in my mouth.

"I'm a bit tired of this game, Travis. We both know you want to suck my cock. You've been wanting it for years. You can take it, can't you?"

I shake my head. He furrows his eyebrows, nodding.

"But you said I have to make you, Travis. Even if you shook your head." He clutches my head with both hands; I strain against the twine that clenches my wrists. Slowly, looking me straight in the eye, he pushes my head down along his shaft.

The ragged darkness splits my mind; I try to suck, but I'm frozen—frozen by memories and nightmares.

I writhe in place, my eyes bulging.

"You can do it, faggot. You can do it."

In the bowels of my mind, Zane is laughing his ass off.

"I still own you," he whispers.

I shake my head.

"Please Travis—fight your demons—not me."

I growl. Chris is one of my demons. He hurt me. He hurt me!

I can't breathe. My lungs clog up; I start to cough and retch...

"Travis?" Chris asks, faintly from the distance. "Travis, you said to ignore you shaking your head. Just a little nibble, and it's over..."

But I won't. I won't hurt Chris back. I don't have the heart...

The coughing subsides; light finds my eyes; I look up drearily at Chris one more time, barely holding on the strength to stay in the light...

He grips my head, hard, biting his lip. I bet he's torn between excitement and despair, remorse creeping in...God, I want to serve him...

Slowly, Chris pushes my head down again, forcing his cock down my throat.

I strain as hard as I can, wobbling back and forth; I think my eyes will explode; light and darkness cut across them like knives...

Zane cackles; I can't breathe; I'm lost in the black.

--

"Hell," I whisper.

"You are my faggot slave, Travis," Zane says. "Mine alone."

He's right. Back in the Art Room, on my knees.

"You win, Zane."

For a moment I look into his eyes. Then I lean forward and suck his cock.

For a moment Zane's silhouette flitters like a ghost in front of my eyes, and then I see Chris again. I tricked reality, if only for a second.

I run my tongue around Chris's cock and force it down my throat.

"Travis? Are you okay?"

I jut my ass high in the air, slinking into the faggot pussy position, letting out a cracking moan, and finally—finally---sucking on Chris's cock.

"Fuck yes," Chris says in a hoarse whisper. "Fu—uuck."

Chris grips me by the ears, jockeying my head up and down as he pistons in and out of my face.

Chris lets up bit by bit, ceding a bit of control, giving me a chance to do the work.

Stick out my tongue, tuck my teeth under my lip.

I make a warm, wet passage that adjusts to the contours of Chris's cock, cradling the bulbous head.

Don't go too fast...savor it.

Slowly but surely, I lower my face into his crotch, the veins of his cock bulging against my cheek.

Vary the pressure.

Only once my throat inundates his cock do I start to suck, gently at first, and then harder. I massage his cock with my tongue, gulping to make sure it doesn't slide out an inch.

Chris sighs, stroking my hair.

On an upstroke, I steal a glance upward. Sweat coats Chris's abs and pecs, glinting in little patches that dance as he breathes. His amber eyes glitter at me, brushed with a bit of darkness.

I move back down, his cock quivering as it slips past my lips; another tremor slinks through his shaft and buzzes at my throat.

I close my eyes, focusing on the warm shaft shifting in and out of my mouth.

In the blackness of my mind, Zane grips me...and when I let him...when I imagine him...I can do it. I can really do it.

I push my ass into the open space, mocking him, as I gurgle on the slippery shaft. I hump the air and sniff his pubes, snorting around in his crotch like a pig looking for truffles. Then I look into Chris's eyes, sucking his whole cock and arching my ass.

"Nice try, bitch. I can fuck that sweet hole anytime. Once we re-train your head to be as fuckable as your ass, then I can scratch that itch for you."

I whine.

"Shut up," Chris says, smirking, shoving me down on his cock again.

I suck tight, sweat and spit collecting on my brow and cheeks.

Friends into strangers.

People into animals.

Equals into nothings.

That was the road Zane put me on.

I get a flash of the bio lab, with the Watson-Crick DNA helixes swinging from the ceiling. A helix named for two people, since individuals aren't good for more than half an idea. One person composes the framework, then another person fixes it.

Zane got me started, but I need Chris—to utterly finish me.

Hanging from above, swinging, swinging, powerless to interfere; little more than a script to follow, a recipe to cook.

The illusion of control stings at my ears. The most influential parts of us are a bunch of coin flips, wild scattershot randomness. The beliefs and actions we end up with, like the people we end up with, have the same mechanism for coming into being and surviving, the same backstory of happenstance, the same inevitable incompleteness and paradokey.

I've questioned all my motives; I've paralyzed my devices for action.

Within this willful hibernation, I've left myself open to awaken.

Open to someone who believes they can and should tell me what to do. In other words, someone who believes they are better than me, and can take control by showing me they are more than worthy.

Chris had one last advantage over Zane, that I've long since ignored, lied about, and repressed.

I'd opened up my heart to him, in a way I never opened up my heart again.

And in that sense, he owns me in a way no one else ever could.

I love him—but not as my equal. As my superior.

As far from equal as possible. Infinitely different.

I'm his slave.

A slave that would do anything for him. A slave that must do everything for him. Because he is what drives me now.

The only other step was for Chris to evolve, and take a leaf out of Zane's book.

"Having fun, faggot?" Chris asks, his eyes flashing as he smiles.

I nod, gulping, bobbing up and down on his cock.

He sits up, his muscles distending his skin, gleaming, before his abdominals smother my face.

He reaches down and massages my ass.

"Keep sucking."

I can't see, but I can feel his body; I can smell the sweat; I can make and hear my own frenzied slurping noises.

His finger grazes my asshole and I let out an extended moan.

I push my ass up, tightening my gluteus maximus, foraging for his finger.

"Come on," Chris says, chuckling, "you haven't even been deprived a day yet."

My hole catches his finger, opening and closing for it, drawing it inside.

"I know you want your faggot ass fucked. But good behavior has to precede a reward..."

I hump his finger, clenching my hole around it, as I slobber along his cock.

"Look up at me," Chris says. He tilts my head up by the chin with one hand. "You do want to get fucked again, don't you?" He pushes his finger in to the knuckle.

I whine, squirming in place.

He chuckles at my conundrum. Then he shoves my head down, burying my face in his crotch. "Finish what you started, bitch."

He pumps my head up and down roughly, and I start to struggle, shaking my head.

"You can do it. You've done it before—remember? C'mon, cocksucker."

Darkness invades my field of vision; water cuts at my lungs.

I choke on Chris's cock, quaking in place.

Goblins cackle at the edge of my mind; Zane's voice echoes.

"You don't like throwing up, do you? Too much jock dick can do that to a fag."

The bile rises in my throat.

"I own your holes, faggot."

I try to cast Zane out of my mind, to bear back the flood of water slicing at my lungs, to swallow down the bits of vomit that Chris's cock forces against my throat.

I shake my head around Chris's shaft; he strokes my hair.

"You said to MAKE you take it," Chris growls, thrusting up and pushing my head down again. "And I've just about run out of patience. You WILL be my cocksucker."

I close my eyes; the blackness surrounds me; everything goes dark.

I try to shake the image of Zane out of my mind.

"Face it," he whispers. "You'll never really escape me."

I smile at him.

I never really hated him...like I never truly hated Chris.

I just protected myself from looking into the painful, shadowy mirror of my desires that he reflected—that I'd pushed out of mind—made foreign—in order to establish a kind of "otherness" that made me think better about myself.

I don't need to ESCAPE him.

I need to ACCEPT him.

At least—a part of him.

I lean in towards his ass...

My consciousness surfaces; I feel Chris's body on mine; I'm deprived of breath; my lungs aflame as I choke on his big cock.

He puts both his hands on the back of my head and fucks my face in earnest.

"Don't shake your head, faggot. There's no going back."

Zane's voice echoes one more time. "Cum for me, faggot."

My vision blanches; I feel like my lungs are bursting.

I writhe in place, cum clicking out of my locked up dick and onto the sheets.

"Damn, Travis. Did you just blow a load sucking my cock?"

I nod, ratcheting up the pressure and moaning.

"That's good, Travis. You get off on giving up."

With his whole cock still in my mouth, I open wide, gagging, and stick my tongue out. Slowly, I lick his ball sack, right down the middle.

"Ffffuck...Fuck...FFUCK!"

I keep licking, the tip of my tongue reaching all the way to his taint, my throat fritzing every few seconds.

"FFFUCCK!"

He clutches the back of my head, flexing; I suck as hard as I can, plastering my face into his abdominals, whimpering all the while...

"FFUCK! Fah. Fff!"

Aeiou. I run the gamut of face shapes on his cock, sucking with absolute veneration.

Chris cradles my head before humping my face three more times.

He sits up as far as he can, till his abs are deadlocked against my skull, and he groans, clutching my head tightly.

His balls draw up; I feel my prize running up his cock against my cheek; he unloads straight down my throat.

I swallow down whatever sticks in place, feeling it roll down my gut and into the core of me.

Chris strokes my hair, hovering over me, waiting to come down from his high.

Overcome, the only sound is our beating hearts.

I suck Chris's cock clean as he slowly draws it out of me.

When it flops out, I nuzzle it, resting my face between his legs.

He tilts my head up, looking into my eyes with his amber shadows.

"You did it," he says, a bit hoarsely. "You finally did it."

"Do you really plan to stop fucking me?" I ask, my voice breaking, dried cum crumbling in my throat. I push my ass up.

"You still need practice fighting your demons. Once we've broken your gag reflex again, you'll get it any way I can give it."

"I want you to break me, Chris." I slurp up the cum leaking from Chris's cock, starting with the pool of it on his thigh and finishing with his cockhead entrenched back between my lips.

"Tickles," he croaks. He grips me by the neck, pulling me off his junk and guiding me down the bed, pushing my face into my own puddle of cum.

I wrap my lips around the stain and suck it as clean as I can, peering one last time into Chris's face. His spectral amber eyes gleam at me as he smirks, looming above; his sweat-drenched muscles flex in triumph.

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