Date: Wed, 4 May 2016 23:53:08 -0700
From: Kyle Weaver <krazytop@gmail.com>
Subject: Taste of Power--Part 20

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 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-face?  Or your faggot 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
worthwhile 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.  Wherever
you are.  Wherever 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.  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
flockers.

"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 rehearsal."  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.

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—it is common knowledge that
Master Zane's in another league.  It's an honor to be with him.

To serve him.

God.  Just looking at him makes me salivate.

I look away.

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 grumbles.

"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.

Damerae insists that I move up anyway.

My heart slows; I line up against Chris.  Is that pain in his eyes?
Perhaps--just a reflection of mine in his?

His soul flays my armor.

He awakens something in me.

I once simpered when I saw him.

I was naïve enough to mistake Robin Hood's ambush for Cupid's charm.
Chris didn't merely wound.

He fooled.  He stole.

The arrow prickles me still.

Why did I ever let myself become vulnerable for him?  What had I thought I
saw?

And why...Why...WHY!

Does it still hurt?

Chris has weakened me, and Zane has finished me.

Chris and I basically never wrestle.  It became obvious why in no time at
all.  Chris is more than strong.  He is an artist of strength.

He has lost his pedestal in my mind, but that memo never makes it all the
way down to my dick.

In fact, the movement to keep him in power seems to stem from there.  To
flourish there.

I didn't get boners during wrestling.  Except...maybe...this once.

Everything stupidly perfect about him—his chiseled, focused face—his
big, blossoming muscles—his nimble hands—the ensnaring scent--all of
him conspires harmoniously to pin me down.

There is no chance for me.

None at all.

I'm pinned.

It's hard to look at him.  To think about him.

The fear that once strangled me has migrated.  I used to shake when I saw
him.

But I'm learning to let the fear in.  To let it flood over me.

To let it be a crucible.

Where I'm headed—there's no coming out the same.

And that's alright.

I am a fuck-up anyway.

Boned up and pinned, I stare into Chris's eyes.

Zane prods my face with the sole of his bare foot.  "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.  Please—don't
make me cream myself in front of everyone."

Master Zane blows a little spit bubble, breaking it with his middle finger.
Then he rubs the spit over my lips.

I stand in place.  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!" Master Zane shouts, smirking.

Hiro and Damerae shrug at one another.  Master 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 steams my ear.
"Don't take it off, faggot," he growls.  He twists it around so it is
facing backwards.  "In mokimon, the trainer takes care of six animals and
the magic balls that control them.  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 me
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'm counting on it," Zane says.

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, moving up
incrementally in sets of ten reps each.

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 guys standing around me.

I can do it.  I can do ten reps.  I glare up at Zane.

"One.  Two."

Every time a comet hits the Earth, it moves the world—if only slightly.

Small can move big.  It's physically possible.

That's not exactly how it works, is it?  Biology isn't so much about
physical reactions.

It's chemical.

And that's where the true power lies.

"Three.  Four."

Zane hovers 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.

I can do it.  I can do the ten reps.  I glare up at Zane.

"Five.  Six."

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 purges and frees the tempted heart.

"Seven.  Eight.  Nine."

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, 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, giving the others time to siphon off one by
one to the showers.

Maybe I can shower after them, like Hiro said?

As soon as I am naked, Zane pulls me in, flexing around me, inundating me.
He's so sweaty, I can barely breathe.

What do I do?  My thoughts drag like molasses.

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, I tell myself.
"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 horny
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.

Does he understand?

I'm Zane's cuntface.

Hiro is dumbstruck, but he shouldn't be.

It's simple now:

Chris and Calvin are toys of the past.

I am nothing.

Zane is everything.

Everyone knows I am his pussy punk bitch.  I don't fight it anymore.

Frankly, I was a fool to fight in the first place.

I'm his faggot.

Fucking sue me.

---

My apologies for the delay.  It's been busy, including an epic computer
crash.  :/.  Anyway, feel free to send me a line:

email: krazytop@gmail.com
tumblr: krazytop.tumblr.com