Taste of Power

Taste of Power by: Krazytop ---

Part VII

I walk over to the faded leather couch in a daze, sitting down, feeling the fabric compress all around, and looking at the webs of little cracks in it. Zane strides over and sits beside me. I can smell him—I think he skipped his shower after wrestling. He knew I was coming, and it seems he took extra steps to not impress me.

"You are wondering why there is no television across from us. Maybe it's because we are poor, and could never afford one. Maybe my dad thought television was a waste of time, so we never bothered. Or maybe he came home drunk and angry one day and smashed it into the floor, and I didn't care to replace it. It would be rude to ask about it, so you'd better not."

Behind the space where there would be a television there is a dead fireplace. The room would be hopelessly bare if it weren't for the hammock in the corner, breezing back and forth, under a little painting of a pineapple.

"Family TV is becoming less and less of a cultural mainstay," I say, trying to focus on the conversation. "As everyone switches to their own handheld devices, people can live in their own private bubbles."

Zane chuckles again. "I don't really care for any of that. Just fancier and fancier ways to pass the time. Not even just that—fancier ways to pass the time in style, so people know who passes time the best. I can't stop the tide of culture, but I can call it stupid all I want. People are ravenous--they flood their senses with whatever they can stuff their faces with. They hope that if they immerse themselves, it will feel more real. But it won't. Because most everything is contrived nowadays. For most people, emotional growth and rawness have become unicorns and dragons."

I nod, afraid to say the wrong thing.

Zane turns the dial on the radio beside him to some talk show with raised voices. "We don't need television to see them, Travis. Close your eyes—tell me what you see."

The voice grows louder; it's sprinkled with static and crackling rage.

"I see someone angry," I say. "They seem—more interested in griping than thinking things through."

"That's what you hear. What do you see?"

I shake my head, my eyes still clenched shut. "What do you see, Zane?"

I feel Zane's grip on my temple; a moment later, he's swinging my body by the head till I'm prostrate. I try to shake him off, but he pins my head into the couch and climbs over me. He lies flat on top of me; I'm scared to move, so I just wait, for what feels like the longest minute of my life.

Zane switches off the radio. His breath is on my ear. "I see barking dogs."

Zane must have retrieved the twine from the pocket of the coat, because he ties my hands behind my back. With my face pressed into the leather fabric of the couch, I can barely breathe, let alone speak. He holds me there for a minute more, flexing into me, and waiting for me to stop struggling and accept what is happening.

Eventually, he strokes my hair. "Do you know why dogs bark?"

I shake my head.

"Well—dogs don't have words, do they? What they are saying doesn't have content, just like what that man was just saying had no content. It wasn't about content. You think the world is set up so that you can combine words, make sense, and people will listen? Neutered idealism falls on deaf ears. What people care about is power. They bark at each other like dogs--for status. They waste hours barking about things they could look-up on their PRECIOUS handheld devices in a second, or about things no one could ever really know. We live in a world where the truth doesn't matter as much as the man who barks the loudest. But barking doesn't always matter either—not when someone is all bark and no bite."

Zane digs his teeth into my neck, and I writhe around.

"That's why I like wrestling. We skip the barking, and get right to the meat of it."

I'm at a loss. My brain is shutting down, and I am helpless to stop it.

Zane tugs my boxers down to my ankles, exposing my ass to the cool air. He growls, pawing it roughly.

"God, it's been a long time since I was inside an ass like this," he whispers. He breathes hot moisture into my ear.

I whimper, pushing back against him, barely understanding what is happening. "Chris can't even look at you like this, you know." He tightens his grip on my ass. "Chris is straight. Me though—I am free."

I moan, turning my head a little. Zane twists it as far as it will go, then spits into my open mouth.

I choke a little; the couch tickles my neck.

"Swallow, faggot," Zane says.

I do. I start to feel cold and shiver.

"You don't have to feel anxious," Zane said, massaging my ass, "because you already know what's going to happen. You've known all along. It might not happen immediately—but it will sooner or later. You've been lied to all your life, about freedom and dreams and everything else. You don't understand anything, Travis. I saw your outburst during history class. You think freedom is about the truth, or at least about people doing their own things. But it's not like that at all."

Zane's tone grows darker as he continues. He pulls my nose into his armpit and bites my ear.

"When everyone is supposedly free, what do they do? They copy, idolize, and desire a boring, socially orchestrated standard--like Chris. And Chris is the least free of all. Because all eyes are on him, and he is terrified to lose his status. He's a product and promoter of society's standards. He's society's little bitch. He's their barking dog. He even has a little bite to him, and I respect him for it, kind of—but he doesn't really have anything to say. He's not interesting—not like we are."

Zane stands up, looming over me, and I turn on my side, gasping for air, peering up at him. He steps out of his red jockstrap and I feel the blood rushing out of my face and into my dick.

He grips his big, sweaty balls, and starts to rub them all over my face. His uncut, corkscrew cock quivers in front of my eyes, and I can't seem to catch up on my breathing.

"You aren't stupid Travis. You don't just walk into my house, sit down on my couch, and close your eyes for me, expecting nothing to happen. You aren't that naïve. You are playing a game with me. You want me to tell you what you already know. You want me to make it okay for you to make it real, because you don't know how to do it yourself."

He looks down at me; his smile coils; his eyebrows raise. He presses his balls into my lips, stretching them out on both sides of my mouth.

Slowly, I stick my tongue out—and graze his sweaty nut sack, right down the middle. The flavor is strong and makes me shiver again.

Zane chuckles. "That's an honest start, Travis. It's time for a little honesty. You've been told that you should be the best at everything you do, but you've never felt it in your heart. We live in a big dog-pile, and everyone is expected to simultaneously climb to the top. Collectively, it doesn't make any sense. You were told you were supposed to try, even if you're doomed to tread water, but you weren't told this because you ever really had a chance. Keeping you occupied was convenient for some. But now it makes you tired—of the whole freedom scam, of the whole stupid game."

Zane rolls me off the couch and I fall to the floor.

"Get on your knees."

I obey him as fast as I can, ignoring the throbbing pain.

Zane runs his thumb up my chin, across my lips, along my nose, and between my eyes before brushing through the tips of my hair. Then, he reaches down and grips my balls, making my mouth fall open. He sneers as he jacks up and down on my dick.

"Just be honest, Travis. Do you really want to be top dog?"

I shake my head.

"You want to be my slave," he says.

I feel he is trying to trick me somehow, yet, my dick is so hard that it hurts. I stare down at the floor, trying to remember how I got myself in this mess in the first place.

"You are still thinking about Chris, aren't you? You can't sort out what you feel. It's all so confusing, isn't it? Let me spell it out for you. I'm sexual for the exact opposite reason that Chris is sexual. Chris has proven that he can navigate our society's standards to the top of whatever pecking order he is in. I on the other hand, have proven that I don't need society's standards—that I can defy them, and still win." He traces the apple on his chest with his finger.

"Lick the sweat off my body, faggot," he says, turning toward me briefly.

I kiss his chest. His muscles are sinewy, hard, and uneven. The salty sweat gathers in deep pools in the valleys of his muscles and I suck them clean. His hand finds the back of my head and drags me around.

"Chris acts within the expectations. He can't stand to see me subvert the way things are. Conformity and subversion compose a kind of duality in life—a grand competition. Winning is a feel-good moment—it spreads culture and ideas and definitions of success. It's all competition; it's all sex; it's all fun and games. Subversion is the fun part though—you get to pour a bit of yourself into the mix."

He pulls me off my knees so that I am balanced on my tip-toes. My knees are still bent forward, but now I can reach Zane's stiff pectorals with my lips. I start to suck on his nipples. He tightens his grip on my hair, pulling me up so I am looking at him.

"You like the smell of my armpits, don't you faggot?"

I nod softly.

"It's because you smell my superiority—thick, pure, masculinity. Power. You can't ever have it—so why tread water aimlessly? You want to drink it. You want to take it in, like an elixir, because when a person can't have power, the next best thing is to be close to power—to worship power. Isn't that right, Travis?" Zane asks.

"Yessir," I whimper.

"Why don't you beg for it then?"

"I am excited to taste you. I can smell the musk in your pits and it turns me on. Please, make me your faggot."

"Go on," Zane says, smirking.

"Please Zane. Please let me clean out your pits with my tongue. Let me be your personal sweat rag. I want to taste you. Ever since you first put my face in there in Chris's cellar, just the thought of your armpits makes me hard. Please, Zane. Please."

Zane's dark laugh fills the room.

"Please," I whimper.

He grabs my head and shoves it deep into his armpit. "Lick that up, faggot."

My tongue drags across his fuzzy, moist pit. The musky, salty, meaty sweat fills my senses and I close my eyes. I lap at it again, drawing as much sweat as I can out of his pit and sucking it down. I do this over and over, moaning; no matter how much I get, it seems there is more; the sweat accumulates on my lips—on my nose—all over my face.

He pulls my head away and I whimper, lapping at air.

"I love that," Zane says. "That fleck of subversion where you communicate that reality isn't where you want to be. That you haven't been made worshipful enough. That you haven't been humiliated enough. That you haven't been pushed low enough. What you want might not even be attainable, but that just makes it hotter."

Zane shoves me back into his pit and I moan, his pit sweat enveloping my face again.

I drink it up gratefully.

"Faggot," he growls.

I hum softly into his skin.

Zane's hand is on the back of my head. "So why am I hot—in a few words?"

I look up at Zane, his pit sweat dripping down my face. I look at his eyes.

He sneers at me. "It's because, Travis—I am forbidden."

Zane grabs my head and pushes it into the other armpit.

I soak it up and suck it down. I lap over and over, whining and swallowing.

"I have to piss," Zane says abruptly, throwing me off him. I roll onto the floor, my bare skin prickling against the carpet. He turns toward me after a few steps. "Aren't you coming?"

I hang my head and crawl after him. My boxers band my ankles together for a time, but eventually, they slide off, leaving me completely naked.

"Get in the bathtub on your knees," he says.

I obey.

"Travis, why didn't you tell Chris what had happened? Why didn't you spit my piss all over the floor of his basement?"

"I—I am not sure," I mutter.

"And then afterward—you had an orgasm—without even touching yourself. Why did that happen?"

I look into his eyes, shaking my head slightly.

"Why did I piss in you?"

"I am not sure," I say.

"Do you know why animals piss? What they use it for?"

I look down.

Zane slaps my face and I cringe. I look into his piercing, heartless green eyes. Zane pulls out his fat cock and my gaze falls on it—mesmerized.

"Piss is territorial—it's liquid dominance." Zane says, staring me down. "This sort of social stuff...can be a fun little game. Let me give an example. When I look you in the eye and you look away, that's submission. If you look back, that's defiance. But what if I command you to look back? How can you defy me then? That inverts the whole dynamic. It's paralyzing. It's a paradox—which means two ideas are at war; they are competing."

Zane flashes a grin before he goes on.

"As you probably guessed, getting pissed on is an act of submission. If you drink it unprovoked, it is an act of rebellion—a strange one I might add, but still, it gives you a bit of control; you show you aren't passive. But when I command you to drink it, it inverts the dynamic again."

I nod, trying to keep eye contact.

"When I piss on you, I own you," Zane says. He lets the stream go, painting my chest with hot, shimmering gold liquid. "The smell of my power is on you."

I grunt, closing my eyes.

"When you drink it, you take a bit of my power inside yourself," Zane says.

I open my mouth and then open my eyes. Zane points his cock just right. The arc of the stream changes—and lands on my tongue. It rolls and ricochets into my mouth. It makes noise like a cup being filled.

It starts to leak out the corners of my mouth.

"Drink it, faggot!"

I start to gulp it down.

Hot, sharp, sour.

"And when I command you to drink it—it confuses your senses; it baffles your mind; it subverts your nature—and all you can think is sex."

I try to drink it all but I can't swallow fast enough and I end up coughing and sputtering.

Zane halts his stream.

"It's okay, faggot," he says, rubbing piss all over my face and into my hair. "You'll learn."

I nod, blinking.

"Tell me when you are ready for more."

I clear my throat and look into Zane's eyes.

"I'm ready," I croak.

He lets out a short burst like he did the other day. I move my mouth to catch it—and swallow.

The next stream is a little longer, but I hold it all and eventually gulp it down.

The next one is too long—I can feel it at the corners of my lips. I never realized how difficult it is to swallow without closing your mouth. I subtly close my lips to swallow and open them up as quickly as I can for more. A little bit of piss bounces off my face in the meantime and I feel a pang of guilt for wasting it. He ends the stream and I swallow it all down, opening my mouth wide.

Zane's green eyes sparkle with malice. They cut into me—but, I look into them pleadingly.

He lets another stream go freely. There's no sign of stopping. I flex all my muscles and find a way to swallow without closing my mouth by tilting my head up to the sky—like a prayer. My mouth is wide open, catching his stream of piss. It goes on and on this time—he isn't stopping for anything—and I just take it all, swallowing his piss over and over and over. It's fiery, tart, and almost salty. I suck and swallow and gulp desperately as his endless stream of piss fills me.

I lose myself.

"Fuck yeah, faggot," Zane growls. "You are my fucking toilet."

I look into his eyes.

When the stream weakens, I lean in and suck the last of it straight from his uncut cock. I moan and take him down to the balls.

Zane's palm cracks against my face.

"Did I say you can suck my cock?" he growls.

"No sir," I whimper.

"Lick up that piss faggot," Zane growls.

I lean down and Zane grabs my head. He smears it around in the piss on the tub floor.

As I finish lapping up the residue, Zane turns on the shower and rinses my skin till the smell is faint. He twists the nob again till the water is gone, pulling me out of the tub by the wrist.

I follow Zane back to the couch, simultaneously terrified, humiliated, and thrilled. I don't totally understand what is happening, but I'm starting to give in to it, and there is something deeply soothing I feel now which I can't completely explain.

Zane sprawls out on the couch. I can see his tattoos curling on his muscled chest. The crescent water planet connected to the crescent fire sun, little shards of one-another at each other's core. The deep roots of the apple tree, coiling across Zane's chest. The apple falling toward the top of an oblivious head.

He pulls my face into his tattoos; I sink back to my knees; I start to trace them with my tongue, chuckling.

"You like them?" Zane asks.

I nod, smirking, and suck on his nipple.

"You sure no one's coming home?" I ask.

"Mom's dead. Dad's back in prison. Uncle's been gone for weeks. Pretty sure."

"I'm sorry," I say softly, digging my tongue around his biceps.

"You are doing a pretty good job of helping me pass the time," Zane says, the shards of light in his green eyes dancing. He sighs. "I helped my dad on a job. That's how I ended up in juvy in the first place. I took the fall."

"What was it like?" I ask softly.

His eyes flash. He may think he is very unlike Chris, but one thing they seem to have in common is little patience for questions.

"It was like this," Zane says. He picks his red jock strap off the floor and pulls it over my head, pushing the crotch of the fabric into my face. "I've been wearing this for a week, faggot. I know how much you like my jocks."

I lose the will to argue and moan instead. He is right, if only by chance.

Zane growls. "I can get a little messy down there, so it has mixed sweat, cum, and piss stains. I even use it to wipe my pits or ass sometimes. Hope you don't mind."

My breathing grows uneven.

"Breathe deep, faggot," Zane says tightening his jock around my face.

I obey him. I let out a weak cracking moan. Zane's really breaking me.

Zane pulls the jock strap off my head.

"Let me suck you off," I whisper.

"That's not begging," Zane says, his lips curling.

"Please, Zane. Please. I want to make you feel good. Please, can I suck your cock?" I whimper.

"Can I fuck your ass?" Zane asks.

My eyes bolt.

I hesitate, biting my tongue. In my mind, I see flashes of my bedroom—of my bed—of Chris climbing on top of me, like he does in my dreams. I close my eyes.

"Interesting," Zane says, shoving his jock strap into my mouth.

I spit out the jock. "No—Zane—don't be mad. Please—"

Zane snarls, untying my hands.

"Are you going to send me home?" I ask, cringing.

"Put on my fucking jock strap," he says, his eyes twinkling in the dark.

"What?" I ask.

"I don't want your faggot cum all over the floor. Now put on my fucking jock strap!"

I slip it on quickly.

Zane slaps my face so hard it stings.

"Beg for it, faggot!"

"Please Zane," I whimper. "Please let me suck your cock. I'm desperate for you," I say, my voice breaking.

"I don't think it will be that easy, faggot. Why don't you choke on my donkey balls?"

I lick one of Zane's balls slowly and shudder. It's different than before, when I barely nicked it. It's sensory overload.

Overwhelming salt and musk.

"Fuck," I whimper. "Do you ever wash them?"

"Only with the slobber of cocksuckers like you. Why don't you fucking wash them now?"

I run my tongue over his balls over and over and over.

"Or better yet," Zane says, tightening his grip on my hair until it hurts, "why don't you suck them into your cunt of a mouth and gag on them, you fucking faggot?"

I suck one into my mouth, then the other. They are far too big to get both at the same time. I stifle a cough, swirling my tongue over his animal balls and sucking the taste down.

Zane pinches my nipples and twists my balls hard.

My mouth falls open and Zane's huge ball smears out.

"Please," I say, my voice breaking. "Please let me suck your cock."

Zane laughs.

I swallow. "Please Zane. Please. I chose you. I'll get over Chris eventually. Please. Help me get over him. Please. Push him right out of my head."

Zane smiles. "I'll try, faggot."

He grabs my head on both sides and slams it down his fat cock.

It stretches my mouth at the edges and I whimper.

He uses my mouth to jack his cock at will. He has absolute control.

At first I am groaning—I feel the sting of nerves--but then I moan into him and let it happen. I lose track of time; minutes fade with him sliding slowly to and fro, with him drawing out his pleasure, giving me an occasion for the truth to sink in, even if I couldn't speak it.

This is how we pass the time.

Eventually, he buries his cock all the way inside, holding me in place, motionless.

"I bet you want me to keep going. To cum inside you. To cement what you are."

I try to nod, but I can barely move.

"Smack your lips," he says.

I try, and it's like I'm nursing on a pacifier.

He grips my ears, tilting my head up slightly with his cock still in his mouth. A fire billows in his eyes as he sneers at me. He flexes—his defiance stitches through his muscles; it's is out of control.

"Fuck yeah, faggot."

He rocks back and forth; he thrusts harder and harder; he bruises my lips; he spatters my face with sweat. I feel I am consumed by his body, by his essence, by his darkness.

I play my tongue against his cock as it screws inside. His palms slide over to the back of my head; he grips my hair; he lets out a dull roar.

He hammers me relentlessly, straining and clouting my face, without a hint of affection or mercy.

"I am cumming, faggot," Zane growls.

I look into his eyes and tighten my lips. The thick cum comes out in waves: the first splotch rolls down my throat and into my gut; he pulls his cock out slightly; the next gob fleeces my throat; he retreats; he fills my mouth; I taste the sweet, salty, yet brutal flavor; he wrenches past my lips and coats my forehead with a hot, sticky rope.

I sigh and kiss his abs and balls, my tongue dragging, as cum rolls down my face, webbing it.

A minute later, I see the gold trickle from his cock and open my mouth wide.

I wrap my lips around his cock and swallow.

I close my eyes and groan deep.

It's easier to swallow when I can wrap my lips around his cock and suck—plus he has less saved up.

Zane pets my hair.

"Cum for me, faggot."

His words push me over the edge; I feel the signs; my balls draw up; my ass flexes, stretching out the bands of Zane's red jockstrap.

"Oh fuck," I whimper, light flashing in front of my eyes. "Fuck!"

Zane sinks down and massages my ass till I cum right into Zane's jock. I try again to catch my breath, as my cum digs through the fabric, forming a thick stain and a stubborn glob of cum that burrows all the way through.

I look up at Zane, my mouth falling half-open.

"Zane," I whisper.

He crawls over me, wrapping his arms around me and pinning me to the floor. "Is that what you wanted? Something warm after sex?"

With his thumb, he scoops up the bit of cum that leaked through the fabric of the jock, and then feeds it to me.

"Zane..."

I'm shaking with exhaustion.

"I know what you want. And what you need. And I can give it to you." His breath seems to boil the edge of my ear. "You need to hear me tell you that it's okay to give in, Travis. It's okay to be a faggot." He bites my neck, breathing slowly. "It's okay to be my slave."

I collapse in his arms—and close my eyes.

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