Date: Fri, 13 Nov 2015 19:20:17 -0800
From: Kyle Weaver <krazytop@gmail.com>
Subject: Taste of Power--Part 15

Part XV


Chris leans close and nibbles my lip.

His cock slaps my abdominals as he looms over me, nestling in.

He grips his shaft and prods my ass with it, tightening his fist, making
depressions in my skin like raindrops pattering on the water.

Then he finds my hole.  He opens his mouth, feigning surprise, raising his
eyebrows.

"Chris," I whisper.

He plunges his cock inside.

I gasp—the shock on my face looking sillier than his, I'm sure—and he
tongues my open mouth.

He humps my ass with a casual, controlled flair.  He builds up—he
explores my body with his palms, groping my pectorals, grating my nipples,
gripping my hips.

"Take it," he whispers, his lips just past mine.  I can feel the sparks as
he speaks, tickling me.

"Fuck me," I moan.

"Don't be bossy."

"Please..."

"Okay, slaveboy."

My body is melting; my dick is rock solid.

I run my hand down my legs, which I had been holding up in the air for him.
Once I reach my thighs, I let go of one leg and encircle my dick with my
fingers, sighing.

Chris bats my wrist away.  "No hands, remember?"

"I thought that just meant I couldn't touch you?"

"NO HANDS," He breathes, blowing in my ear.

"Yes—sir."

His abdominals clap against me as he rocks back and forth.  At first, he is
positioned on his knees, with his legs slightly spread, but as he builds
up, he lifts his knees off the bed, bringing his legs close together, and
funneling all his weight into his thrusts, burying his cock as deep as it
will go down my hole.

"Fuck," I whimper, palming my tense thighs tightly so I am not tempted to
jack off.  My dick is throbbing; every fiber of my being is screaming to
reach out and clasp it, to convert that infernal itch into a flood of
pleasure; I bite my lip, shrieking inside my head to control myself.

With Zane, my wrists would be locked down and that would solve that.  This
time, Chris just expects me to obey.

My dick is flared and bulging, desperate for touch.

I clench my eyes shut and shake my head.

Chris growls.

He presses his hands against mine, interlocking our fingers, squeezing my
skin.  Through them, he conducts my thighs, contorting my body so that my
legs fold up against my chest.  My knees dig into my shoulders.  With my
legs folded up, Chris moves his hands to my ass, spreading my cheeks,
making my hole as accessible as possible.

He rams his cock deep inside.

"Shit, Chris," I whimper.

I know I'll leave red imprints of my hands on my skin, but I can't help it.
I have to hold on to my flexing legs for dear life.  I can't let go.

I can't touch my pusillanimous dick.

Once upon a time, I'd focus on the romance of it, but Zane fractured that
aspect of me.  I know I am to focus on being the perfect sheath for his
shaft.  On being a pleasure burrow.

Chris hunches forward and gnaws at my nipple.

"Hell," I whine.

He swirls his tongue around and sucks hard.  Then he bites down.

I buck into the air; my dick grazes his chest.

The contact is more than satisfying—it's consuming.

I moan, punctuating his next few thrusts by arching my back and whipping my
lower end up, grinding my dick against his torso, feeling a forbidden spark
etch through my body.

"You want to please me, don't you?" Chris asks.

"Yessir."

Chris grabs my ass with one hand, and pushes on my abdominals with the
other.  "Get a grip on yourself.  No wonder Zane's so authoritative with
you.  You need discipline."

He slaps my ass, and I cry out playfully, before he chews my lips again.

"Shut up," he sighs.  "And don't let this thing become a distraction."

He bats at my dick; it bounces back and forth before falling to a strained
rest, snaking directly up my chest.

"Yes—master."

I flex, pulling on my thighs, stretching my body open.

He drags his lips along my shoulder.  "My turn to make a mark."

He clamps down on my neck and slurps hard.

"Fuck," I whimper, writhing around.

"Shhh," he breathes, plunging in again and again.

"I'm yours, Chris.  Your faggot."

Chris cocks an eyebrow.

I grab Chris's wrist and bring his hand to my lips.  I slurp his palm; then
I bite down softly on two fingers before gulping them into my mouth.

"Fucker," Chris groans.  As I amplify the pressure, Chris counters by
cupping my head for leverage and sucking gingerly on my neck.  He wallops
me harder, his body clouting mine as he lances deep inside.

My mind fades as my body takes over.  The only thought I cling to is the
imprisonment of my superfluous dick.

Otherwise, I let go.

"C'mon, pussyboy, show me what you got," Chris mutters.

My straining ass softens, and Chris emits a little groan.

"Hell, Travis..."

I flex my gluteus maximus, clamping my sheath around his shaft.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Chris says, his voice breaking.  "Slow down."

I taunt him with my ass, savoring the shocks jumping across Chris's face as
my tunnel grapples his cock over and over.

"I said, SLOW DOWN!" he growls.  He grips my neck, pinning me tight against
the bed, whipping his cock out of my ass in a quick lashing motion.  I gasp
reflexively at the sudden emptiness.

Chris catches his breath.  "What the fuck was that?" he asks, raising an
eyebrow.  He releases my neck and flashes a half-smile.  A cloud moves out
from in front of the moon, and a bar of moonlight streams through the
window, painting Chris's sweaty body with silvery light.

I cling to him.  Then, after a moment, I nuzzle into his armpit and lap.

"Don't worry; I'm gonna finish fucking you."  He rolls me onto my stomach
and lowers his voice to a whisper.  "No more Mr. Nice Guy."

He palms my ass, spreading it with both hands.

His cockhead prods and prickles me, and then, he slides it all the way back
in.

I groan, pushing out.

"Fuck yeah," Chris says.  He pads my ass cheeks and then builds up, packing
my ass with thrust after stinging thrust.

He tongues my ear.  "I care about you, you know.  You aren't just some gay
boy to take things out on.  You are a troublemaker...but you are worth the
trouble.  You are worth fighting for."

A hint of romance sneaks back.  "I care about you, too, Chris."

I love you.

But I couldn't bring myself to say it.  Not after I'd said it to Zane too.

Would they mean anything?

And would he say them back?

Can I fall in love...anymore?

Chris wraps his arms around me, snarling.  "Fuck."

I get the sense the moment has passed.  In fact, it may have confused or
alienated him, because his compassionate side snuffs out.

He's a brute.

He paws at my ass and grinds his cock in deep.

"You are my slave pussy tonight," he says, gripping my neck for leverage.

"Yes master," I breathe.

His thrusts build up to frenzied hammer strike.

I'm having trouble catching my breath as it is—but then, he reaches
under me and grips the base of my forbidden dick.

Sparks.

I whimper, pushing my ass back into him.  The moment of mercy is gone.  He
releases my dick and squeezes my balls, reining me in, pulling my ass high
into the air.

I'm still discombobulated, whining, as Chris grabs the back of my head and
twists it toward him.

"Shut up," he says, his eyes glimmering.  Then he leans forward—and
kisses me.

I moan and whimper into his mouth; he smothers my noises; he tongues me
down.

Harder and harder he pounds me—his slave pussy—until my mind is empty
and my body is helpless.

He releases me from the kiss, turning my head back and pinning it into the
pillow.

"Fuck yeah," he says.  He holds my neck for leverage as he crams his cock
into me.  "Fuck."

He hastens; he hardens; he toughens up.

I'm on the edge.

I still—-love him.

He's making—-my dreams come true.

Except—-one.

And--I'm afraid.

I'm afire—with a deep blaze that reaches the core of me.

Light flashes in front of my eyes; for a moment, it is day time; the sun
breaks up clouds at the end of a storm.

My numbness dissipates and I feel his warm, firm cock entrenched inside me,
and it feels like heaven.  He holds me tight as he delves into me.

I let out a cracking moan; I push my ass up till it claps against his
abdominals; and then—I shoot forth, volley after volley of cum, right
into Chris's prim sheets.

My quivering hole braces his shaft, clenching down.

This time, Chris doesn't pull out.

He whips himself up, crashing down on me over and over, till I wonder if my
ass might bruise.

"Fuck yeah," he growls, pounding me to the point of no return and then
some.

Maybe he was still mad about Zane.  The way he was crushing me, it seemed
like he was either mad about something, or just kind of...losing it.

"Fuck..." he says, chewing my neck.  "Fuck..."

The sound of his body clapping against mine reverberates around the room.

"Fuck...fuck..."

"Cum inside me, Chris," I whisper.  "Mark me."

He covers my mouth, but the damage is done.  His eyes flash; he hammers me;
I suck his hand; he buries his cock till his balls rest on my skin, and
then he collapses on me, his mouth inches from my ear.

"Fuck," he whispers one last time.

Then, his cum pulses deep inside me, in a stream that never seems to end.

Slowly, my eyes droop and our hearts slow.  I sigh, rolling my tongue
around Chris's palm as he holds me tight.  We fade into the bath of
moonlight, and then into nothing at all.


---


I curl into Chris's chest and he holds me, running his hand through my hair
slowly.

"Was that okay?" he asks.

"It was like a good dream," I say.

"I wasn't too hard or too soft?"

I nibble his nipple in ascent.

He flexes, inflating his pectorals and wrapping me up.

I didn't know exactly what in the world makes a god like Chris anxious, but
I want to take the weight off his shoulders.  He gets short of breath
again—his tight refractory period is otherworldly—and he continues to
stroke my hair before gripping it tight.  He guides me down his hilly
pectorals, through the canals of his sweat-drenched abdominals, and to his
shiny, recovering shaft, which curls into the air and catches the
moonlight.

"Ready for round two?" he asks.

I roll my tongue around his growing shaft, stealing a glance into his
glimmering eyes before he buries my face in his balls.


--


I can't focus at school the next day.  Partly, I'm exhausted from lack of
sleep and from a general feeling of being overwhelmed.  I'd been deprived
time to process everything, and I think I need more than the average person
in the first place.

Wrestling practice is much the same.  Coach surprises me as I work the
weights.

"I see you lost the earring."

"Yessir," I say, pumping out another rep.

"Then it's your lucky day.  Damerae is back from his ankle injury, and he
wants his spot back."

Coach's expression is blank.  I sense he is still disappointed with me.

"Today?" I ask.

"Today," he repeats.  He beckons for me to follow him and we make our way
across the hall.


---


I try to calm my breathing as Damerae and I hover on opposite sides of the
mat.  I can't beat Damerae, can I?  I look into his face.  Chocolate skin,
fuzzy hair—he wore it in longer dreads the rest of the year, but he cut
it short during wrestling season, so that it just barely peeked out of his
headgear now.  Pure eyes, focused and unclouded.

I had yet to have a statement win.  I got lucky at the Storm Meet, and my
fight with Eduardo I won on a technicality.  I needed to prove myself.

Prove you are a faggot, Zane seems to whisper.  I look around, but he is
nowhere to be seen.

What is wrong with me?

My heartbeat builds up, and the echoes of Zane are replaced by flashes of
Chris.  I try to get images from the night before out of my mind, but
somehow, the thought of him soothes me.

Damerae's arms entangle with mine, we stand across from one another, locked
in place.

I can't win like this.  He's stronger than me.

Chris said to cultivate talent.  What does that mean, exactly?  If Damerae
is stronger, I can't win a battle of strength.  I have to do something
creative—something that has a little finesse.

I grit myself, copying the move I'd seen Zane try against Chris the other
day.  I suddenly change directions, pulling instead of pushing, swinging
both of our bodies to the mat.

We struggle; there is a lot of rolling around and flexing and
grunting—but ultimately, it seems—I still cannot pin him down.  No
matter how I wiggle and worm, he alters tact, making the game about
strength again, and overpowering me.

I'm outclassed, aren't I?  Not just in terms of strength, but in terms of
skill as well.

I'm inferior.

Maybe my position isn't meant to last.

In a desperate vie for positioning, my foot grazes his ankle, and Damerae
cries out.

If push comes to shove...

I drag my foot against his, flexing out with my last burst of strength, and
Damerae taps out.

A wave of guilt rolls over me--I milked his injury to win--but at least I
didn't punch him in the face or grab his balls like Eduardo or Zane might
have done.  What weak consolation.  Damerae always strikes me as a fierce
competitor, but he also always plays fair.

I cling to the JV spot—Calvin thumps my back—but the win has a
tainted quality.

Damerae nods at me before taking his ankle in his palm, grimacing and
rolling it under his thumb.


---


My parents' voices carry from the other room.

"Why does he have to stay out so dang late?"

"He hasn't been absent from school," my dad says.  "I don't think it is
drugs either—there's nothing wrong in his eyes.  Maybe we should look on
the bright side.  It's been weeks since I've seen the inspector."

We eat dinner.  Heck—I even go so far as to describe my day.

I don't want to risk a good thing.  Even if what's happening with Chris
isn't a purely good thing—it isn't exactly as I imagined it—it's
nothing if not exciting.

My dad raises an eyebrow when I explain I have to work on the group project
with Chris every day of the week, but they don't fight me on it, which
means that after dinner, I voyage through the forest again.  Fully clothed.

A warmth courses through me—and for a moment, I don't feel the croaking
frog song echoes my pain.  Instead, they are egging me on.

I DID beat Eduardo, I DID beat Damerae, I DID win the Storm Meet for my
team.

I don't have to feel guilty, do I?

I can celebrate a victory with Chris, right?

For the first time in a while I let myself smile, thumbing the shark-tooth
necklace.  I pause, leaning against a tree and closing my eyes.  I suck in
the smell and flavor of the forest and feel the world stand still, at least
for a moment.

Then, something changes.  Shadows fall on me, and I feel a bit cooler. The
forest musk gets stronger, more animal, and suddenly, I feel sweaty skin on
my lips.

I open my eyelids, wriggling, shocked; slicing green eyes, red-head Mohawk,
tips mottled with black dye—Zane.  I scream out; but Zane pulls me in by
the back of the head, muffling my voice in his sweaty armpit.

"Shut up," he says, his eyes sparkling--and I fall quiet.

I push him backwards; he pushes me in retaliation, and I slam into the
tree.

"How many times am I going to catch you with your eyes closed?" Zane asks,
smirking.

"You shouldn't be here."

Zane yawns.  "Not now, cunt-face."

"Chris won fair and square.  It's over."

Zane curls his lip.  "Faggot pussy position."

"Zane—" I whimper.

"Don't make me say it twice."

"Zane—"

Zane lands a blow to my stomach.  I can tell he held back, yet still, it
makes me double over.  He pushes me down to my knees.

"Faggot pussy position," he says again calmly.

I sink forward, putting weight on my hands, feeling the leaves crumple
beneath me; then I lie flat on my stomach, arching my ass into the air.

"Let out that ass."

I bite my lip.

"NOW!"

I unbutton and unzip, rolling down my jeans and boxers, exposing my ass to
the forest air.

Zane sinks down behind me, reaching under and groping my dick through my
jeans.  "You have a boner, faggot."

"Zane," I whisper.  "No..."

"Don't worry, punk."  He slides something thin and smooth between my ass
cheeks, making a little wall there, as though out of cardboard.  "Do me a
favor and deliver this to Chris," he says.  "Don't take it out before you
get to him.  It's for his eyes only."

"Okay," I croak.

Leaving my boxers pushed down, Zane pulls up my jeans, zipping and
buttoning them, the item still tucked safely between my ass cheeks.  Then,
he kisses the hill of my ass through the fabric and pushes my face into the
leafy dirt, getting clumps of grime stuck to my face.  "Gotta go faggot.
Sorry I couldn't fuck you."

Afraid to move, I lie there, clenching my eyes until I am sure he is gone.

I walk delicately the rest of the way to Chris's house, wondering if I'd
let my guard down too much.  It was as though every time things threatened
to sort out, I got a reminder of my naiveté.

"Are you okay?" Chris asks.

"Just saw Zane," I murmur.

Chris's expression darkens; then, he catches me off guard by pecking me on
the cheek.  I blush all over and follow him down the stairs.  He collapses
back on the couch, spreading his legs wide and tucking an arm behind his
head.  "What happened?"

I bite my lip, swiveling and unbuttoning my jeans.  I slide them down.

"What is that?" Chris asks.

"Zane put it there," I say.

"Did he—"

"No, all he did was shove that up there."

"Good," Chris says, massaging my ass.

I lean forward, clutching my knees.  Then, Chris reaches in and grabs it,
making me cringe at the funny smearing sensation dragging along my skin.

I turn back.  It's an envelope, with a bit of brown crust.

I blush deeper.

"Did you read this already?" he asks.

"Zane said it was for your eyes only."

"Good," Chris says, running his hand through my hair.  He tugs on my
necklace, pulling me down to my knees.

He tows me to his crotch, where I brush my lips against the outline of his
cock slowly.

He bides his time looking over the message, stroking my hair as I lose
myself, nibbling and sniffing the bulge in his jeans.

Suddenly, Chris crumples up the note and tosses it behind the couch.

"What's it say?" I whisper.

Chris unzips his jeans, thrusting slightly into the air so he can pull them
down, along with his silk boxers.  His balls flop out and his cock swings
up, jabbing me in the face.

"He wants a rematch.  Zane feels I had home court advantage.  The agreement
was only for a week, after all."

"Who cares?" I say, smacking my lips against his balls.  "You don't need to
win me in some game."

"He's raising the stakes.  Loser gets their picture taken kissing the
winner's feet."

"Can't you just have me kiss your feet?"

I slide down Chris's jean leg, but he pulls me back up, the silver chain
digging into my neck.

 "I'm doing this," Chris says.

"Why?  You don't have to prove anything."

"This conversation is over," Chris says.  He guides his cock through the
ring my lips form.  He grips my head with both hands, keeping me from
wriggling away impulsively when I gag.  He slams my head down, then fucks
my throat hard.

His voice is low and dangerous.  "This needs to happen.  Let it happen."

The contractions in my throat slow.

"Motherfucker," Chris says, his body clapping against my face.  Chris
clenches my hair, growling as he thrusts in again and again.  "People need
to learn their lessons."

I close my eyes as he builds up, his hard cock inflating my cheeks on its
circuitous way down.

He pulls my hair till it hurts.  "You can do it, bitch.  You can take it
without gagging."

It had been a while since he had slung that pejorative my way.  I was too
far gone to fight it, too far out of sorts to even know if I wanted to.

MNMPWAH.

"That's it, Travis," Chris says, talking over my slurping noises.

I can sense that he is close.

I'm getting to know him in new ways.

I tighten my lips and draw in, worming my tongue around his cock.

Nails grating my hair.  Deep grunting.  Veins jumping.

"Fuck yeah, cocksucker," he mutters.

He inhales, his pectorals protruding above me, blanketing me in shadow.  He
stomps one leg after the other.

"Let it happen," he breathes.

I moan, stacking pressure, absorbing blow after blow to the face.

"Fuck...FUCK.  FUCK!"

The underwater sensation blossoms as Chris grips my ears, disorienting me.

I steal a glance at his face, my eyes glazed over.

He smiles down at me, his gold eyes glittering, as he flexes out.


He grunts, his cock jumping.  For a moment, I can't breathe, even out of my
nose.  I thrash as he grips the necklace tight, his smile gone.

He holds my head down as his hearth jumps in anticipation of its next
creation.

Suddenly, it's as though I'm kissing a whirligig in a storm.

He strokes my cheek with one hand, holding me in place with the other.
Calm floods through me, and my struggling deteriorates.  I gulp, then gulp
again and again till it's done.

The glint of his half-smile catches my eyes, and he sighs faintly.  I
nuzzle into his thighs, lapping the lingering sweat from his balls.

He cradles my head as my mind melts away.


---
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