Date: Tue, 28 Jun 2016 23:53:19 -0700
From: Kyle Weaver <krazytop@gmail.com>
Subject: Taste of Power, Part 22

Part XXII


God does not throw dice.

A very smart person once said that.

Every action warrants an equal opposing action; the forces of nature have a
built-in sense of egalitarianism.

Equations are predictable and beautiful to those who make them.

Beautiful in their simplicity—the golden egg of human discovery and
creativity.

Everything should be made as simple as possible, but no simpler.

Is should the operative word there?

Zane would say nature drives people to make things simple, to see things
simply.

People can't fathom the cold randomness of inequity.  Nor vice-versa.

People break.

Sometimes, what goes around comes around.  Sometimes it is a perfect little
circle.  Sometimes what goes up falls, and what sinks is buoyed back up.

But sometimes, things come back stronger, like a torn muscle grown over.

And sometimes, things come back weaker, like a lost limb that can't grow
back.


---


I can't show my face at wrestling.  Not after yesterday.  Fortunately,
Damerae says he will skip it today with me, so I can help him clean the
leaves off his roof.

And I don't mind what's happened.  Not exactly--the inevitable shunning
isn't that different from being off on my own.  Which I like just fine.

It's more than awkwardness.

I just—don't see the point right now.  Everything else is such a
distraction from what really matters.

When I close my eyes, I see Zane.

My mouth waters.

He sent me home yesterday, after what happened in the locker room, and
today, he has been avoiding me.  I feel like there is a hole in my soul.
Every second without him I miss him.  It's nothing like what I felt for
Chris.  With Chris, I surfed my deepest emotions.

With Zane, I sink into them.  The only direction is down.  And I am
addicted to going under.

I pray that I'll see him again soon.

Maybe he'll award me the honor of licking the sweat from his pits and ass
and balls.

Or he'll make my dreams come true with his corkscrew cock.

God.

The feeling of his arms around me.

He's perfect.

I want to be the perfect fag for him.

Hopefully, I'm getting there.


---


Damerae's home looks like a gingerbread house.  Messy paint coats it like
frosting.  There are flowers all around.  Some of them look home grown,
some of them look wild.  Giant oak trees surround the house, draping it in
shade and dappling the grounds with half-eaten leaves.

I sound the knocker, and Damerae pulls open the door, his voice subdued.
"There's a ladder round back."

We circle the house in silence, dodging the giant pile of slush and leaves.
There hadn't been snow since Christmas, except the slushy hail storm this
morning, and it had been a relatively warm winter overall.  Damerae
probably should have raked the leaves more back in the fall, so they didn't
get caked into everything by the slush that followed.

I climb first, so Damerae can hold the rickety ladder in place.  He's able
to keep his balance as he follows.  Half the roof is clear of the goopy
leaves, and half is overrun.  Damerae hands me a rake.  "I'll do the
gutters.  Don't just push it off the roof just anywhere, or I'll have to
rake it again.  Aim for the pile.  And Travis—thanks for helping me."

"No problem."

Slowly but surely, we make progress raking the slush and the leaves.
Damerae never told me why he jumped off the roof a couple weeks back.  Was
it an accident?  Did he think he was invincible?  Was it a rebellious rush?
I can't bring myself to ask.  I think my old self might have, but Zane has
made me much more conscious of when I talk.  Weight sinks into my useless
dick as I close my lips.  I don't just prattle away of my own volition.  If
I am not prompted, I am to assume people do not care.

Damerae catches me looking at him.

His eyebrows shroud his eyes.  When he looks up, little morsels of light
flare in them.  He seems grumpier than usual, perhaps due to chores.  He
drags his teeth over his tongue.  His dimples flash for a moment as his
eyes narrow.

I check my phone every ten minutes or so to see if Zane has texted to me,
but instead I have to make do with checking the time.  A shock streaks
through me when I realize wrestling practice has ended.  Yesterday, he sent
me home.  My balls jump at the thought.  Maybe today—

"Remember your outburst in Mr. Andrew's class, a while back?"

Damerae forces me to invert my mind for a moment.

Why do people keep bringing it up?

I look him in the eye, wiping off grimy sweat with the back of my hand, and
balancing on the rake.  I guess I must be allowed to indulge that side of
me—Zane wouldn't have sent me here otherwise.  My dick stretches my
jockstrap to the edge of comfort.  I clear my throat.  "Yes," I say.

"You said a domineering fool like Christopher Columbus doesn't deserve a
holiday.  So why Zane?"

I find it difficult, reviving that part of my brain, like moving tendons
that had been locked down for a long time in a cast.  I focus on my
breathing, keeping at bay the insurgent in my pants.  "Zane taught me I
don't understand freedom.  That how I saw it then was just an illusion."

"Explain it to me," Damerae murmurs, overturning some more leaves.

"Free people choose to give up their freedoms in order to be a working part
of societies.  It can be big like a country, or small like a wrestling
team.  Doesn't matter.  They mortgage their freedoms, conforming to gain
status, and then piss even more of their integrity away in order convert
their status into power.  By the time they have power they have no freedoms
or convictions left.  Like Chris, who wouldn't refuse a wagered wrestling
match to ensure my safety, because the rules he hated mattered more than
the things he should have loved.  Freedom and justice aren't even relevant
to each other.  Freedom is a fucking waste of time."

"So then the bank of justice is bankrupt."  Damerae glares now.  "So what?
You wallow in your pathetic philosophy, doing nothing to fix anything?"

"Like I said, freedom is a fucking scam.  The forefathers owned slaves.
They never even meant what they said.  They just wanted to hold onto their
money and power."

"Who cares what the forefathers thought.  They aren't God.  They are just
people, trapped in a different time, ignorant to our present.  And maybe
hundreds of years from now, people will look back at us, smirking, thinking
of us and wondering how we lived when knowing so little."

He frowns before he continues, slowly, his voice taking on a booming
quality I never knew lurked under the usual smiles and laughter.  What has
gotten into him?

I find it jarring.

"The soul of the world does not hinge on the righteousness of men that
lived hundreds of years ago.  You shouldn't focus on how the forefathers
were wrong, but how they stumbled onto an ideal, perhaps for stupid
reasons, that was true.  When people believed in it enough, they did their
best to realize it.  Freedom here may have started as merely propaganda,
and it may crop up as propaganda from time to time, but the reason it crops
up is because it enables good arguments—it has a good premise.  The
forefathers found the best arguments, and people like Martin Luther King
Jr. took those arguments, believed in them, applied them correctly for
once, and brought them to life.  They believed in what this country could
be, and with their unfaltering love, they actualized it."

"It doesn't really matter to me anymore.  I might as well just be Zane's
slave; it's better than it was before."

Damerae shoots me a death glare.  "So WHAT?  I might as well rake you into
the slush pile, is that it?  You're a joke.  And Zane is a psychopath."

"I'm his joke, and he can be whatever the hell he wants."

"Go home, Travis.  We're done here."

There were more leaves, but I knew not to argue anymore.

Hollers sound from beyond the pile of leaves.

Eduardo.


---


I clamber down the ladder, and Eduardo claps me on the shoulder when I
reach the ground.  "I shoulda played hard to get, like Damerae here.  Then
maybe I'd get to own you for a day."

"Shut up," Damerae says, hopping off from halfway down the ladder.

"Don't hurt your ankle again, bro.  You guys ready to play Big Bang
Brothers?"

I hadn't played in weeks.  I didn't even know Damerae had the game.

Zane hadn't given me instructions for this situation.

"I should go home now," I say softly.

Damerae sighs.  "Don't go yet.  I have something I need to give you."

Damerae gestures for us to follow him inside.  I hesitate.  Then, I try to
push Zane out of my mind.  Damerae leads the way through the narrow hallway
to his room.

"I didn't even know you guys played," I say.

"Everyone plays Big Bang Brothers," Eduardo says.

Damerae gets us situated on his bed, with me in-between them, and we start
a game.

I play as Mokimon Trainer, Damerae plays as Ass Kong, and Eduardo plays as
Captain Pigeon.  Damerae owns the game, and yet, somehow, he isn't all that
good.  We knock him out first and then Eduardo makes short work of me.

Eduardo lets the silence eat away at us for a while, refusing to choose a
character for the next game.

"You know why I wanted to play this game, puta?"

The whole situation carries a suspicious familiarity that I have difficulty
shaking.  I look at Eduardo and shake my head.

"Do you know what a cundango is, Travis?"  He flops his controller to the
side.

Now that I'm a more receptive listener, people sure as hell want to talk.

Eduardo breathes in my ear and I flinch.  "In Cuba, they don't have gay
people.  Not like they do here.  What they have are cundangos.  Cundangos
are people with penises that might as well not have them.  They exist to
get fucked and their penis is more for decoration.  And when a straight guy
fucks a cundango, that doesn't make him gay or nothing.  It isn't much
different than fucking a girl."

"Can't we play another round?" I ask softly.  Eduardo's way of thinking
sits better with me than Damerae's.  Though a part of me thinks it would be
nice to just be one of the guys for just a few minutes.

Is that possible anymore?

"Sure, mamapinga.  How about we get a bet going?" Eduardo asks.

Damerae scowls.  "Another round.  No bets.  I've learned my lesson."

"Whatever," Eduardo says.  He settles on Silver Serpent and starts the
game, and talks his way through it.  "In America, when I see two `gay' guys
together, it just seems like a joke.  It seems gross.  Not because gay guys
are gross—but because a cundango isn't supposed to be with a cundango.
It's like if a girl attracted to straight guys forced herself to be with
girls.  Cundangos want to be with straight guys.  That is always their
fantasy.  You just have to hassle it out of them.  What is sad is that in
America, straight guys are afraid that fucking a cundango will make them
one too.  But why would it?  Does fucking a girl make you want to get
fucked?"

Damerae snorts.  "You like the sound of your own voice almost as much as
Zane does."

I feel a jolt below the waist; the plug prickles my ass.

Eduardo chuckles.  "Straight guys like Damerae here—don't understand
cundangos like Cubans do.  So they don't understand that it is perfectly
harmless to fuck them.  And because straight guys don't fuck cundangos,
cundangos think they can't get what they want, so they settle for a charade
of romance with other cundangos.  And it is so fucking sad."

Damerae rolls his eyes.

Eduardo ignores him, knocking both our characters out at the same time with
his big bang move.  Then he peels off his shirt.  He still smells a bit
fresh from wrestling.  "Look at me, cundango."

I gaze over at him, my mouth agape.

"When you look at my body, does part of you want to suck me off?"

"Sure," I say softly.  "But—"

Damerae bolts up.  "I'm not going through this again.  Last time was a
mistake."

Eduardo laughs.  "Well, you can't speak for Travis here, can you Damerae?"

"I don't want to mistreat him."

"We won't mistreat him!  Haven't you been listening?  Travis is like a
really horny girl, desperate to get boned, that happens to accidentally
have a dick.  We'd be doing him a favor."

"If Travis wants someone that will return the favor, he should find someone
that will, not settle for straight guys that just want to get their rocks
off."

"So Travis," Eduardo says.  "What turns you on more?  Other cundangos, or
straight guys that just want to get off?"

"Straight guys," I say, my voice empty.  "Cundangos sound like zeroes."

"Are you a zero?" Damerae asks.

"Yes," I say.  "I'm a cocksucking faggot zero."

Eduardo rubs my hair.  "I liked how you skipped practice today, bro.  We
don't need you as teammate.  But we could use you as the team cundango."
Slowly, he pulls my face into his sweaty, salty chest.  I catch a glimpse
of the shark tattoo on his shoulder as he pushes me down.

"Why would we want Travis off the team?" Damerae asks.  "He is a better
wrestler than you.  He should win most improved this season."

"Want your end-of-season trophy, puta?" Eduardo asks.  "It's in my pants."

Slowly, I unzip his jeans, freeing his half-hard, uncut cock.  He guides me
toward it, closing his eyes and sighing.

Just as I reach it, a spasm runs through me.  Light flashes in front of my
eyes.

I sense things.

The shark-tooth necklace cinching my neck; the taste of charcoal; piss
drowning my throat; cum sliding down, then revolving; the plug in my mouth;
bile; losing control of my body; everything in reverse.

I shudder; I fall to the ground in fetal position, trembling, my eyes
misting, my dick stretching to its limits.

"Are you okay, bro?" Eduardo asks.

"I—can't," I whisper.  "I can't.  I'm sorry."

"Not your type?"

"I just want Zane.  Please—Damerae--you said I could leave.  I need
Zane."  A tear rolls down my cheek, and I turn away to obscure it.

"You don't need Zane.  He sent you here to show how much power he has over
you—punking Eduardo in the process.  Don't you see?  If you run to him
now, then he wins."

"I want him to win.  I live for him.  Please."

"No one can make you do anything," Damerae says, scowling again.

"Yes he can.  He owns me."

"NO ONE OWNS YOU!"

"Please, don't yell at me.  I need Master.  Zane—please—"

"There's something I need to give you," Damerae says, shaking his head.  He
reaches under the bed and hands me a book.  "It's from Hiro.  There's a
note inside.  He's sorry about what happened, like I am.  And embarrassed
to look at you, it seems.  So he gave it to me to give to you."

I clutch the book to my chest, clambering to my feet.  I make my way out of
the house at a brisk clip.  I don't even turn back to say goodbye.


---


Hiro's gifts have always been odd.

He tends to give things that he plans for me to use, rather than the
typical gift cards and toys.

Most recently was the Penrose Triangle Keychain that Chris had reclaimed.

I remember being especially nonplussed one year, when Hiro got me a black
light and strobe light for my birthday in late August.  It turned out Hiro
meant them as props for the haunted house Calvin's family creates every
year in their garage.  To Hiro's credit, the aura we drummed up was
especially eerie that year.  Calvin's brother Brett chipped in, sporting in
a Spartan warrior costume, swinging an axe in slow-motion with the strobe
light blinking in the background.

All of which only serve to make this impractical-looking book feel even
stranger.

Curiosity gets the best of me.  I open it up, and on the inside of the
front cover, Hiro's written a note in pen.



Travis,

I don't always feel I fit in.  What I said to you about `the nail that
sticks out' is what my dad says to me, when he thinks I am acting oddly.  I
rarely agree with him.  I took my frustration out on you when you needed me
to be there for you, and that was dishonorable.  I am partly embarrassed,
but I am mostly sorry.

After Escher invented the Penrose Triangle, he spent a lot of time thinking
about impossible objects, and how they can seem possible from certain
angles.  He liked to play with perspective, finding inspiration from making
things the opposite of what they are known to be.

I hope you like this book.  And I hope in time you can forgive me.

Your friend, Hiro


I turn the page, then turn it again.  I see a picture of staircases,
spiraling off in all directions.  They are all walkable--at least according
to the people drawn to live amongst them.  Despite being sideways or
up-side down, they link up to one another anyway.  There is no way of
making sense of the directions and dimensions.  It's a painting plucked
straight from a dream.

I close the book and stare ahead.


---


I catch my breath and knock urgently.

"Come in," Zane calls.

I twist the nob and push the door open.

Zane has some nerve.  He's sitting on his couch, in nothing but his
shark-tooth necklace, red jockstrap, and Calvin's mokimon cap, with his
plumped-up cock fished out of it, constrained against his left leg.  He
slides a finger along it.

I close the door quickly.  "What if it was someone else, Master?"

"I figured it would be you."

I walk over to him, kneeling between his legs.  My hardened dickhead
burrows under the elastic band of the jockstrap, peeking out for Master to
see.  He smirks, raising a brow and brushing my dick with his foot, making
my whole body tighten.  I clamp my eyes shut and bow down.  Gingerly, I
unbutton my jeans, shucking them half-way off, pushing my jock-framed ass
into the air.  I crawl forward a bit more, planting a kiss on his foot,
then tonguing the space between his toes.

"Master," I whisper.

"Did you help Damerae with his chores?"

"Yes sir."

"And did Eduardo pay you a visit?"

"Yes sir.  He tried to get me to suck his cock.  But it made me—sick."

"You can't suck his cock anymore.  You can only do what I tell you to do."

"Is that a command?  Or a fact?"

"You will soon find that the distinction between commands and facts is
little more than a matter of tense."

"Can I suck your cock?  Or will that make me sick too?"

"Go ahead and check," Zane says.

I get up on my knees and push my head between his strong thighs, sniffing
his crotch.  Then, slowly, I drag my tongue up the base of his cock,
following the twist, my tongue folding over on itself.  I close my lips
around the veiled head.

I go all the way down in one motion, burying my face in his leg, his balls,
and his taut, folded over jockstrap.

I slowly release his cock from my mouth, and nuzzle into his warm
abdominals.  "Thank God," I whisper, my voice cracking.

He strokes my hair slowly.

"I've missed you, Master," I whisper.  "You sent me home yesterday after
wrestling.  Then you didn't talk to me at all today.  I was afraid—I'd
done something wrong."

"You've been a good faggot, Travis.  That's not the issue."

He pulls me up by the hair and my pants fall down to my feet. I stumble
forward onto the couch, my knees digging into the cushions.

He pulls down his jockstrap, jacking his cock and chewing on his tongue.

His green eyes twinkle.

"Can I—fuck myself, Master?" I ask softly.  "Please?"

Zane prods my lips with his middle finger, and I suck on it, looking into
his eyes.

He reaches under me, scoping out the handle to the buttplug.  Slowly, he
draws it out of me, and I gasp.

The plug has its ups and downs.

On one hand, it makes it easier to take a pounding, since I'm more readily
stretched.  It also keeps me focused on what I am.

On the other hand, Zane spends less time on foreplay when my body is more
automatically ready.  I'm of the opinion that getting rimmed by Zane is one
of the best things that can happen to a person.

In the end, it's his call, and that's the way it should be.

Zane drops the plug on the floor and raises an eyebrow. "Knock yourself
out."

I swirl my tongue along Zane's finger.

I wiggle around, settling, making Zane's cock part my ass cheeks till it's
nudging my hole.

Inch by inch, I descend down onto Zane's cock.

"Good faggot," Zane says.

"Mmn," I whimper.

Zane pulls his finger out of my mouth and drags it across my cheek.  He
cups both of my ears, making me look deep into his eyes.

I sink lower.

His cock opens up my insides, colonizing ground.

I gasp, my eyes rolling back.

"Plunge into the depths of what you are."

I tremble as I bottom out, spearing my ass to the root on Zane's cock.

"Work that slave pussy, punk."

My thighs shake a bit as I rise, putting all my weight on my knees and the
bones in my lower legs.  Then I slam my ass down again, clenching.

Zane catches me off guard by pulling my face into his.  He brushes his lips
against mine, then nibbles me playfully.  I feel his tongue and I arch my
back.

We make out as I fuck myself.  He becomes more vigorous, scoping out the
inside of my mouth with his tongue.  I run my hands up and down his chest,
appreciating every contour of his musculature.

It's ridiculous how amazing his cock feels inside me.  I'm
inundated—consumed—intoxicated.  It feels so good--yet somehow
off-limits--for my body and my soul.  I want to help Zane feel at least as
extreme as I feel.

On the inverse end of the spectrum.

The gulf in status between us—it needs to be stretched as far as it will
go.  Then it needs to be stretched again a bit further, like a muscle being
worked.

I ride up and down on Zane's corkscrew cock.  Slowly I pull out of the kiss
and whisper into Zane's ear.

"Thanks for kissing me."

"I know you like to be rimmed, cunt-face.  Same basic idea."

"Warming my lips up for a face-fuck?"

He thrusts his cock up into me.

"Does that make any sense?  I'm already fucking your faggot ass.  You are
so retarded."

"I know, Master.  It's just...you must know I obsess about being your
bitch.  All the time.  It's all I can think about."

"Cool story, faggot."

"I never dreamed I'd be lucky enough that this would happen.  And I was
afraid."

"That's why we flooded your fears.  We made them real enough so you could
face them, and then learn from them.  Afraid of vomiting.  Afraid of
turning your body inside-out.  Afraid of committing everything to me.  But
that's done, isn't it, coin?"

"Yes, Master.  I revere you," I whisper.

Zane nibbles his tongue.  "You couldn't be more pathetic if you tried."

"I try anyway, master."

Zane tucks his arms behind his head as I build a rhythm.  He smirks at me
as I oscillate up and down.  I've inadvertently pumped some air into my
ass, and after an overzealous bounce, the air escapes with a little farting
noise.  I turn red, chuckling.

Zane pulls my face into his armpit, drowning it in sweat, and whispers into
my ear.  "Get on the floor, BITCH.  Faggot pussy position."

I moan, nuzzling into his pit and springing up and down on his cock a few
more times out of reflex.

"NOW," Zane snarls, smacking my face.

Slowly, I rise up off of Zane's cock.  It exits my ass with a little pop.
Emptiness prickles me.  I back off of Zane, shrinking back down to the
floor, lowering my face into the carpet and pushing my ass into the air.


     Sleep into reality
     And wake up all your dreams
     You can't capture what really is
     Trapped inside what seems


Zane nudges the buttplug closer to my face with his foot.  "Lick it."

I grasp the grungy plug, put it up to my lips, look up into Zane's eyes,
and slowly obey.

He stands over me.  "Back off, faggot."

I crawl backwards, my ass tilting to and fro.  He nods at me, and I lick
the plug again.

"Do you think sex is funny, Travis?"

"I don't know.  I—I was just trying to diffuse the tension."

"But I'm so fond of tension."

"Sorry, sir."

"One might consider you immature."

"If you say so."

Zane smiles.  "It's a tad more complicated, really.  People have various
ways to express immaturity.  They settle on specifics for a reason."

He sighs, looming over me, flexing.

I peer up patiently.

He sneers down, light refracting in his sharp green eyes.  "People are
so—uptight—about sex.  Relieving tension, as you call it, lets people
unbottle their desires...and weaken society's vice-grip.  But it's been
such a messy affair.  The battle used to be over when sex was holy and when
it was shameful.  Now it's more of a battle over when sex is serious and
when it is casual.  Say what you will about me, but our sex is more
romantic than what most people have these days.  I mean, we've had sex at
least twice!  We even have real conversations."

"You can't blame a guy—for wanting to rush the conversation—and take
your cock up the ass."

"Sure I can.  People don't savor it." He pauses, towering above.  "Sex can
be so—ritualistic.  I suppose--rituals can go either way.  The problem
runs deeper.  It's a thoughtless ritual.  A faithless ritual.  Religion is
seen as this grand, sobering enterprise.  Out of the realm of small talk.
Out of the realm of relevancy.  What is God, Travis?"

My hole twitches.

"It depends on who you ask."

"Go ahead and humor me.  God knows you want to."

"Creation," I say softly.  "Good fortune."  I stare at his crotch.
"Connection."

I look up.

Zane raises his eyebrows.  "Sounds like sex."

"Yes, Master."

"Maybe that's why religions preach about sex.  And have a sex God.  Even
Christianity has the Holy Ghost, which is more or less an omnipresent
cumshot."

I let out a little chortle.

"See!  There!  You laugh.  It's funny.  But why?"

My balls tingle.

"I'm connecting things I haven't connected before."

Zane smiles.  "People laugh when they reject an idea.  Or, when they accept
it.  Maybe it's not just the connection, but the mere consideration."

I nod.  "You are a sex God to me, Zane."

Zane presses his foot against my face and I nuzzle into it, dragging my
tongue against it.

"You latch onto my body and mind.  You pledge to my ass.  And you worship
my cock."

I consider his words, losing any will to laugh as he pulls his foot away.

"I take you very seriously, Zane."

"You'd better."  He kneels down and slaps my face.

 I try my best not to move.

"Call me Master, remember?"

"Master," I croak.

He slaps me a few more times.

I look straight up into his eyes.  A tear rolls down my cheek.

Zane tousles my hair, then sits down.  He stretches his legs out, one on
each side of my body.

Zane drags me toward him and buries my nose in his balls.  "Do you worship
my cock?"

I breathe in his scent, sticking out my tongue and prodding his taint.
"Yes, Master."

"Tell me why."

"Creation," I say, trying to find the words.  "Your cock is the gate to
your sacred library.  Inside are the instructions--the blueprint—to your
body and soul."

I kiss his balls.

"History."

MNMPWAH.

"Legacy."

MNMPWAH.

"Genesis."

MNMPWAH.

Zane tilts my head up, making me look into his eyes.  "If we have kids some
day, let's have two.  We can tell everyone that we are each the sperm donor
to one.  But it will be a lie.  They'll both be mine."

"You do have an unorthodox notion of romance, don't you?"

"You know it," he says, pinching my earring.

I breathe slowly, quelling a rebellious urge.

"Why do you worship my cock, cunt-face?"

My lips slip past his balls as I gaze deeper into his eyes.

"Good fortune," I whimper.  "Your cock--is a token of luck.  It's a
treasure to bury in whatever safe haven I can offer.  I'm blessed that you
would put your cock in a desperate nothing like me.  You are a living
legend.  The lengths I would go for you..."

I start lapping madly at the shaft of his cock, curling my tongue around
it.  After a while I pause to look up at Zane again, still swirling my
tongue slowly, tasting a trace of my ass.

Those eyes.

I can't say no to them.

"Why do you worship my cock, faggot?"

"Connection," I whisper.  "Your cock is emotional glue.  It gives me
purpose.  It fills me with love.  I'm addicted to the bond."  I swallow.
"Can I suck your cock, Master?  Please?"

"What's the rush?  I want you to memorize this feeling."

I open my mouth wide and close my eyes.

"God, you are such a faggot."

I slowly lick my lips, letting out a little noise.

"Goddam it, punk," Zane hisses.  He stabs my mouth with his cock and slams
my head down on it, grating at my throat.  I force myself not to gag.  A
shiver needles through my body.  I lie mostly still, gripping my own ass,
as he ravages my throat.

"God, you fucking faggot, what the hell is wrong with you?"

I slurp desperately on his cock.  He repositions, drawing his legs up so he
can fold them into a kneeling pose.  It evinces the kind of nimble, brutish
grace that only a wrestler can master.  His bulging thighs glisten with
sweat.

He rises up to his knees.  I have to crane my back and neck to keep my
mouth on his cock.

He pistons in and out, stroking my hair.

We aren't people.

We are barely animals.

I'm a sliver of nothing.

And Zane is a sliver of God.

"This is the cock you worship, you piece of shit.  The one—and only."

I slurp and suck and roll my tongue around as Zane humps my face.

"This creative, lucky, sticky piece of work."

I can feel it pulsating inside of me.  Just the thought that I could have
this impact on this God brings me to the verge.

Religion.  One part proselytism, one part procreation.  And maybe—those
parts aren't so distinct when all is said and done.

Zane hastens, gripping both of my ears and fucking my head.  "You are so
irresistibly lame."

I squeeze his ass cheeks, feeling them flex in my palms as he thrusts into
my face.

His abdominals clap against me.  His harsh, salty sweat corrodes my senses.

I slurp and whimper before he takes over completely.  Over and over, his
rippling muscles rope against my face; he inhales deeply; his pectorals
protrude over me.

"Go ahead and TREASURE it, cocksucker."

He's on the edge.  God!  I clamp my mouth down and roll my tongue under his
cock.

He floods me, weighing down the heart of what I am.

My dick strains its confines, till I hear the jockstrap snap, the elastic
band broken.

Fuck.

The lashing elastic band stings my skin before drooping lifelessly to the
side.

My arching dick, hard as ever, bounces freely.

"C'mon, faggot," Zane growls, pinching my ear.  "Think about what you've
become."

My breathing takes over.

I'm his faggot.  His slave.  His supplicant.

My empty hole clenches.

He sends me over the brink.  And flings my soul into the abyss.

Spasms run through me as I cum all over the carpet.

I look up into Zane's eyes and swallow again and again and again.



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