Taste of Power by: Krazytop ---
Part IV
What is Chris thinking?
If he wants me to keep a secret for him, this is not good motivation. That might not even matter, if somebody sees me like this. What would I even say?
Darkness falls fast, streaking the sky at first. Then it surrounds me, and my eyes adjust. Clouds drift overhead; I sense static in the air.
I can hear the cadence of the frogs' broken chirping and my frantic breathing and the crackling leaves beneath my feet. I step and step and step again.
Little halos of light bounce up and down, past the line of trees. Someone has left their back porch light on. I grimace and walk onward.
Chris either didn't plan this very well--or had far more faith in me than I did.
My cousin's house looms up ahead. In my excitement, I almost trip and fall—my wrists are still bound behind me, and my sense of balance can't be taken for granted anymore.
I'm lucky my cousin's house is one-story. She is much younger than me—not quite a teenager yet—but she often surprises me with her no nonsense attitude. I don't ever want to forget what it was like to be that age, and she helps me remember.
I turn away from her window as I reach it, scoping out the surroundings. Then, I rap my fist against the window, straining.
Jane's light flicks on.
I turn inside and watch as her eyes bug out.
She puts her little hands over her mouth, her eyes seeming to glitter. Then, she comes over to the window and opens it.
"What the hell are you doing, Travis?" she asks.
"Never mind that. Help me get inside." I wiggle through the window and she tries to catch me. I'm too heavy for her, and I still hit the floor with a thud. I pull my legs in behind me, flexing my bruised back.
"My parents probably heard that," Jane says. She closes the window. "Why are you almost naked?"
"It's hard to explain. Just a prank really," I say. "Does it matter? I need your help."
Jane's eyes narrow. "You aren't joining a gang or freaky-deaky fraternity or something are you?"
"No, it's nothing like that Jane. It's just—my friend is mad at me. He has a weird way of having me make it up to him."
"Your friend sounds like a jerk-off," Jane says. "Here, hide in the closet. I'll get you fixed up."
She rolls her eyes as the trundle door shuts.
A voice calls from the other room.
"Jane, go to bed. I can hear you horsing around." I recognize Uncle Ben's voice. I gulp. What if he sees me like this? What would he think? What would he say?
I hear the door whimper open and Jane's feet pattering away.
"I just remembered we are supposed to bring outfits for a skit at school tomorrow," Jane says. "Dad, do you have a big cloak and magnifying glass I can use to look like Sherlock Holmes?"
"Maybe," Uncle Ben says. I hear the wooden floor creak as he walks off.
Jane returns after a minute. She opens the closet door, and puts her finger on her lip.
Then, she cuts the twine and I gasp.
"What?" she whispers.
"It's just, you caught a little skin," I say softly. The twine falls to the floor. I knead my wrists where they are red from pressure. A bead of blood moves down my left hand. I close it.
Footsteps creak in the hallway, and Jane puts the scissors on the floor next to me, brushing her lips again. Then, she rolls the door closed.
The knock on the door makes me jump, and I curse myself for not keeping still.
"I don't have a magnifying glass, but I do have this pipe. It belonged to my father, so don't lose it. I also have this old brown raincoat and this Indiana Jones hat."
"Thanks dad," Jane says.
I hear Uncle Ben sniff. "Jesus Jane. It smells like the high school locker room in here. Why is your window open? There's probably a dead animal out there or something."
"You are so paranoid sometimes."
Uncle Ben sighs. "Goodnight Jane."
"Goodnight, dad."
Her bedroom door shuts. She opens the closet again and picks up her scissors, shaking her head.
"I swear...the things I do for you, Travis. Here's a raincoat," Jane says, tossing it at me.
I wrinkle my mouth. "I'm going to look like a flasher in that."
Jane snorts. "You will look less like a flasher than you do right now."
She stands on her bed so she can put the hat on my head.
"And why do I need a hat?" I ask.
"So people won't recognize you. It's stealthier."
"If you say so," I mutter.
The wind outside grows louder for a moment, then fades to silent.
"Thanks for all your help Jane," I say. "I hope you do well at your `skit' at school tomorrow."
"Oh shut up," Jane says, punching me lightly.
I climb out the window.
"Do I get the pipe?" I ask.
"No," Jane says. Then she closes the window.
I feel self-conscious with each step, but it isn't as bad as before.
My heart feels like it is going to burst as I run.
The trees whip by; my breathing is ragged and strained; I feel dizzy.
Thoughts seem to swirl in my mind. The circle of power; the centrifuge turning; the dial in the game of Life, the ceramic spinning wheel. I feel like I am falling, or just about to, so I throw my weight against a tree, running my hands over the rough yet workable bark. I know there are rings inside it, layer upon layer, signifying year upon year upon year, a cycle of hardness and softness, persevering.
I inhale. My house key is resting with my wallet and phone, all tucked snugly inside my jeans in Chris's cellar.
My house isn't far ahead now.
I have to knock on my own front door. The tribulation is over, at least physically.
Yet, still I pause, hesitant to face what happened.
Did this mean—were my feelings for Chris--all for nothing? Did he think it was funny, that I loved him? Did he just want to see what he could get me to do, what he could put me through?
I didn't want to hate him. Loving Chris was one of my redeeming qualities. My mind went to darker places when he didn't occupy it.
Sometimes, in Ceramics, I would stop the spinning wheel out of nowhere, just to feel it stop, just to see what it looked like when it was still.
I knock twice on my own front door.
It's not long till my mom answers. She pulls me in for a hug.
I feel my body soften—and I feel like I did before, in the bio lab—like I could drift into ashes.
"Oh, Travis. I've been worried about you. When I saw you weren't in your room, and you wouldn't answer your phone... What happened?"
"My friends pulled a prank," I say softly.
"Travis—you have just been—acting so oddly these last few weeks. You disappear into your room, or elsewhere; you speak in five-word utterances; you just aren't..." she sighs. "Travis, I'm always going to be your mother. You understand that, right?"
"Yes, m'am," I say.
I walk inside and she shuts the door tenderly.
My dad looks up from his book. "Well, what do you know, it's PI Travis. What can we do for you, inspector?"
My mom looks daggers at him. "Frank!"
"What, Teresa? What am I supposed to say to him? You don't like it when I call him Professor Weirdo, which is much more to the point I think—"
My mom sighs. "We'll talk about this later. Travis, clean yourself up."
I go to my bathroom. I take off the hat, the cloak, and the soaked underwear. I twist the shower knob and get in. It scalds me. I snarl but I don't change the temperature. I just let it burn.
When I finish, I towel off. Three steps later, I slam my bedroom door closed and lock it.
I lie in bed and stare at the clock.
It's later than I thought. When I get like this, time doesn't seem to flow anymore. It just ripples out, and rises and falls, and builds and crashes. It is directionless, or perhaps, pan-directional, without beginning or end, susceptible to rhythm and repetition and revolution.
I need to sleep.
My mind and body are exhausted, but a little part of me isn't ready to sleep just yet.
When I graze my dick I'm hard in an instant.
Chris flashes in my mind. His words echo inside of me.
"When you dream about being my bitch—how does the fantasy go?"
When I close my eyes, I can imagine that Chris is here next to me, that his hands are on me, and that I am making him smile.
"Please, Chris," I whimper, pulling on my dick. "Please fuck me," I whisper.
He tackles me to the floor, pinning me with his golden body. But instead of moving up my body, I feel his hands on my ass.
"Chris," I whisper, closing my eyes.
He spreads my ass and plunges his cock inside. My eyes bolt open and I cum all over myself.
I clean it off with my soggy boxers.
In my mind, I see Chris grin.
A little voice at the edge of my consciousness sneaks in.
"I fuck girls, not guys, and having you even thinking about me like that undermines who I am. Everyone thinks I should beat you half to death. I'm barely nice enough not to heed their advice. And you are going to tell everyone I did beat you up. After today, you are to never come back here or talk to me like that again."
I hug my pillow and shake my head.
I want to sleep, but I feel damaged everywhere, mostly invisibly.
"I love you, Chris," I say softly.
The little voice gets more malicious in my mind.
"I have a girlfriend, Travis. You knew what you were getting into. You knew it would mean nothing."
Chris Valdeo will never love me.
My lip is trembling. I bite it, but that doesn't help enough.
I curl up and cry.
My alarm goes off earlier than I would like the next day. I smash it too hard and it cracks a little. Breathe. Cereal, shower, brush my teeth. I look for the spare key in the drawer. I fail to find it. I slam the drawer shut a little harder than I meant to. I inhale slowly.
I decide to crack my window slightly so I can open it from the outside. The last thing I want to do is tell my parents I lost the key. I don't want to add `incompetent' to their list of criticisms.
I try to stay quiet during history class, staring out the window and watching it rain. It's one of those odd days where between the storm clouds, bars of sunlight percolate through the patches, lighting up the dust and making the rain shimmer on its way down.
I frown. Somehow, I have lost another pencil. This is becoming a weekly custom.
I hit the gym hard during weight-lifting, and even harder during wrestling practice.
I'm at a machine, working my pecs.
One-hundred pounds. Ten reps.
Maybe I shouldn't go back to Chris's house. I'm being pathetic. He doesn't love me.
One-hundred ten pounds. Twelve reps.
I need to get over him. I need to fall for someone that doesn't hate me—that at least could love me.
One-hundred twenty pounds. Fourteen reps.
Fuck Chris! What's so great about him anyway? Just because his fuzzy hairline in the back always catches my gaze--and his eyes are like the sun--just because his smile makes me go weak at the knees, and I want to soften into his hot muscles... fuck him!
One-hundred thirty pounds. Sixteen reps.
What more could I give? I was giving everything! Why should I go back? He said not to. He was being, as Jane said, a jerk-off. He fucking left me tied up in my boxers in the dead of night!
One-hundred forty pounds. Eighteen reps.
I saw how he brushed his knuckles in front of his eyes. I shook my head and snarled.
One-hundred fifty pounds.
I'd never set it that high before, but what the fuck did that matter?
Time for twenty reps. I pushed against the metal bars, again, again, and again.
I only make it to nineteen before the weights overwhelm me and collapse with a slam. Machines are safe—they can't hurt me—but Calvin is there in an instant. His grip is warm on my shoulder.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"Peachy," I growl.
"Don't push yourself so hard, okay?" Calvin whispers.
"Go away," I say.
"Fine," he says.
After practice, I find Chris by his locker.
"Chris," I say, trying to keep my voice even.
"Why are you talking to me?" Chris asks.
"I need my wallet, my keys, and my phone," I say.
"Hey, the cundango is talking to you," Eduardo says. "Mamapinga's getting thirsty."
Laughter. Whistles. Catcalls.
"Chris," I say.
He slams his locker shut. The noise reverberates throughout the room.
"Don't talk to me."
"Chris!" He walks away, not looking back as I call his name again.
I go home and collapse on my bed.
The truth is I don't really care about my stuff that much. We have some old phones sitting in a box in a garage; maybe I can switch my service over. Getting a new wallet is easy enough; the insides are replaceable too. I don't really need a key.
Part of me wants to stand up for myself, but that just isn't going to work. Sometimes it is worth doing something out of principle alone, but this didn't feel like the time. I didn't want to disrespect Chris. I want to be the perfect guy for him, not just an irritation.
I want him to think I am worth having around.
I want the devotion to be mutual.
I want him to love me.
I bolt upward.
I'm going back, goddamn it. I have to.
I put on the brown raincoat and fedora. I stash the cut twine in a pocket.
It's not long till I am back in the forest. My heartbeat is wild again; I can hear the frogs croaking out their broken, billowing song; I can smell the tree bark, wet from the day's rain.
Faster and faster I move through the woods. Most of the trees have no leaves; the wind has nothing to play with and grows till it sounds angry and lonesome--till it is howling.
I'm at the cellar door. I pull out the twine, tucking it into my boxers. I roll up the raincoat and put it above the door. I stack the hat on to so it won't blow away.
I'm in nothing but my boxers now. I try to control my breathing. I need to know—if Chris can love me. If it is even possible.
I open the cellar door.
I go down the stairs and stop cold.
Chris is sitting on the couch shirtless and sweaty, a video-game controller in his hand.
Next to him is Zane, also bare-chested, furiously mashing away at his controller, his eyes flaring dangerously with each motion.
Zane presses the start button and the game freezes. His eyes narrow.
"What the fuck?" he asks. He looks me dead in the face with those terrifying green eyes. I look at the floor. "What the fuck is he doing here?" Zane asks.
"Hell if I know," Chris says.
"What is this, your sex dungeon?"
"I don't know what he is doing here!" Chris snarls. "He came near here once, and I beat the shit out of him! I don't know what the fuck is wrong with him." Chris glares at me. "He must be fucking crazy."
Zane stands up, walking toward me slowly. His face gets close to mine. I close my eyes and cringe. I hear the footsteps as he walks around me; I smell his familiar sweat. He slaps my chest hard and I cough. I can feel the red-hot imprint.
"Odd," he says. "Travis seems notably devoid of bruises for a guy you beat up yesterday."
Chris stands. "If I said I beat him up, then I beat him up."
Zane turns his gaze to Chris. "That's one possibility."
Zane looks back at me and I look down. He slaps my cheek and I bring my hand up to rub it immediately. Zane sneers at me, those sharp green eyes cutting into me, making me weak.
Zane laughs. "Don't look away from me, faggot. I want you to look right at me. To face a superior man with a look of submission, adulation, and respect."
I glare at him, and he laughs.
"You know Chris, back when I was in juvy, guys like Travis were quite the commodity. I had one." Zane exhaled into my ear and I shivered, trying to keep my eyes open. Trying to look right at him. But like looking into an eclipse, I couldn't keep my eyes on him forever.
"His name was Leroy. But everyone called him my bitch." Zane looks over at Chris. "So let's consider another possibility. This faggot comes over, you are all ready to beat him up, but you just can't pass up the opportunity to use his eager, tight, wet throat. You decide that maybe, you want to make him your bitch instead. You tell him that it has to be a secret, that he has to pretend that an alpha stud like you would never do something so gay, that you will tell him when it is safe to return, so you can schedule your next little blow session—but the eager fag just can't wait; he wants to surprise you, so he comes back at the first possible opportunity to beg for more cock."
"That's not fucking true!" Chris yells. The look is back in his eyes, like sunlight twinkling, but now, it looks just as dangerous as Zane. "I told him to NEVER come back!"
"Interesting," Zane says. "So he defied you. I guess you had better teach him a lesson."
I start to back away.
"Don't move, faggot," Zane says. "We aren't at school now. There is nothing to stop me from tearing you limb from limb now."
"There's me," Chris says softly. "And I don't want to punish him."
"You realize what your mistake was, right?" Zane asks, looking at Chris again. Zane walks over to me, running his hands through my hair. "Your mistake was letting him go without teaching him a lesson first. If you had fucked his face, and then beaten him up, your story would at least be plausible. Your mistake was your mercy. It's going to fuck with his mind, you know?"
Zane looks at me. "Do you want to suck Chris's cock?"
I look away, and Zane catches my cheek again.
Zane tightens his grip on my hair and pulls my face slowly into his armpit. "Breathe," he growls.
I inhale.
"Do you want to suck off pretty-boy Chris?" Zane whispers.
"Yes," I say softly.
He starts rubbing his pit sweat on my face; I am intoxicated by the animal smell; I start to make noises, slowly, my brain reminds me to fight.
"STOP IT!" Chris screams. "STOP RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"
"Okay," Zane says, shrugging. He lets go of my hair and takes a step back. I feel cold as his body pulls away from me. I bite my tongue and look up at him, my gaze as neutral as I can manage.
"You should go home, Travis," Chris says.
Zane smirks. "On the other hand," he says, circling me again, "staying around might be a big step toward persuading me to stay quiet."
"If you didn't--what would stop me from telling the world about your little prison bitch Leroy?" Chris asks.
The fury breaks in Zane's eyes, but as usual his voice merely oscillates between icy and cavalier.
"Chris, do I look like the kind of guy who cares what other people think?" Zane smirks, tracing the apple tattoo on his chest. "You, on the other hand, epitomize the kind of guy who spends all of his time and resources living up to the standards of others. And it finally worked. You got a bitch."
"Fuck off," Chris mutters.
"That phrase again. Why am I always so skilled at eliciting it? You know it's true, though, Chris. Having Leroy was a badge of honor in a den of criminals. He was a standby until I could get out of prison and drown in a world of pussy. You, on the other hand, have never had hardship like prison, and have no real reason not to score real pussy—"
"Shut the fuck up!"
"I think, Chris, you need to get laid," Zane says.
I walk over to Chris and sink into him. I'm not sure what to say.
He looks at me, his eyes lighting like amber in the sun.
Suddenly, a small smile returns to his lips.
"Zane," he says, the strength in his voice returning. "I don't like how you are threatening my alpha male status. I don't like how you are being a manipulative tool. If we are going to do this, we are going to do it with my rules. We are still in my fucking house."
Zane raises his eyebrows. "Whatever you say, stud."
"Here's what I propose. We finish our game. Travis is going to wait patiently on his knees for a winner. His mouth is the prize."
"One game? That's not enough," Zane says. "You are too good. It needs to be something of a challenge for you, don't you think?" Zane bites his tongue.
"How many games then?" Chris says, his face wrinkling as his tone gets low.
"Seven games," Zane says.
"Seven fucking games?!" Chris growls.
Zane says. "Each of the seven games is another chance to get at your bitch's mouth. Assuming that's okay with the fag."
Zane looks at me.
I look over at Chris. His expression is empty. What does he want me to say? I want to please him. Part of me wants to fight for more, but I don't want to make him mad and put whatever we have in jeopardy. I know trying to keep this secret will make him happy. I don't know how he feels about the risk though. He won't clue me in.
I turn back to Zane and nod.
"Seven games," Zane says, slapping my ass. He looks at me funny. "What is this?" he asks, pulling the twine out of my waistband.
Zane looks at Chris. "No, seriously, what is it?"
"Why don't you tell him?" Chris says, nodding at me.
"It's for tying my hands behind my back."
Zane laughs. "It looks like last time left a mark," he says, brushing his thumb against my scab. I shiver.
Chris massages the back of my head. He pulls me over next to the couch. He sits, holding my shoulder for a second. Then he pushes me down to my knees between his legs. I unbutton his jeans and find the opening in his silk boxers by tracing the outline of his bulge with my finger. I pull out his balls and half-hard cock.
Zane grabs my wrists, pulling my arms behind me. Pain jolts through them, I stifle a yelp.
"Let's not deny you your good luck charm."
He ties my hands tight.
I need to win Chris over. I need to show him what I can do.
I lean in, my mouth falling open, but Chris catches my head in his hand before I can reach my prize. I whimper.
"Not yet, bitch," Chris growls. "First I have to win."
--- Feedback keeps me in the mood to write and brainstorm and is always appreciated. :) email: krazytop@gmail.com tumblr: krazytop.tumblr.com