Date: Tue, 12 Jul 2016 21:26:10 -0700
From: Kyle Weaver <krazytop@gmail.com>
Subject: Taste of Power, Part 23

Disclaimer: This is a mindless piece of fiction; don't do anything stupid,
etc.

Part XXIII


I see now with the sterility of an anthropologist.

The push and pull is more than the game of courtship; it's the game of
life.

Every conversation, every action, every movement stinks of them now.  I can
almost see, almost feel the aura around people, like the blurry, smoky pins
Zane put in me.

They interact; they bark at one another; they babble.  They settle in on
egalitarianism, or dominance, or submission.  Cooperation, parasitism,
hosting.  They decide if each social contract is tabled or sealed or
shattered.

The ideals people preach are not soulful promises of how people carry
themselves: there exist shy racists and bossy civil rights advocates.
Ideals are self-serving, dynamic, unflinching things.  Each, arguably, is a
life of its own, though not a lonely one.  As pioneering DNA, they are
viral.  They infect people and organizations, glorifying the inversion of
purpose and identity.  Ideals become good at spreading or they are swamped
and felled by competitors.

Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your
country.

Am I standing up for myself?  Is that ostentatious power?

Am I generous?  Is that ostentatious weakness?

And tomorrow, when culture's ideals evolve still, will the answers to those
questions be the same?

I'm generous with Zane.

Today, maybe you think he's taking advantage of me.

Tomorrow, maybe you'll think I'm a saint.


---


I slam my singlet down on the desk.

"I'm quitting the team."

"Travis—"

"Don't try to talk me out of it, Uncle."

"It's Coach."

"Whatever."

"We need you.  You are the soul of the team.  People see your improvement,
and they get pumped up.  They want to compete."

"Well I don't.  Thanks for what you've done for me, Uncle.  I'm just not a
wrestler.  Not anymore."

"Then what are you, son?"

A faggot.  A barking animal.  A sliver of nothing.

My ass clenches around my plug.

"A cundango."

"What is that?  Is that some of Eduardo's slang?  Hey?  Get back here!"

But I don't.  I don't care about authority figures anymore.

Except one.


---


There are just shadows and me in the hallways.

I drift past the bio lab I like to haunt, but it stings too much of the
past today.

I wander into the physics lab, the class I'm signed up for next year.

There are little ramps stacked.  Used to measure velocity.  I heard that's
the first lab.  I roll the marble down the ramp, watching as it clinks
along the countertop.

I catch it.

Newton and Einstein were mentioned in my history books.

I smirk.

The past whispers to me no matter what I do.

Last year, in World History, I remember getting lost in the photo of Newton
holding up a triangle to the light.

That was before Isaac Newton ruined Leibniz's life.

Leibniz had simultaneously invented Calculus and wanted some share of
Newton's credit.  Newton had the Royal Society in his back pocket, and they
made Leibniz a laughingstock.  The man became a reclusive drunkard soon
after.

This morning, Mr. Andrews mentioned Einstein when we studied World War II.

He wrote a letter to Roosevelt.  Urging him to create the nuclear bomb.
For the second consecutive war claiming to end all wars.

Those two scientists really had a way with forces.

Newton saw gravity one way, and Einstein saw it another.

I speculated once that people aren't good for more than half an idea.  But
maybe it's just a fraction of that.  Or a fraction of a fraction.  Our
conception of the truth doesn't settle; it bounces; it inverts.

The times have a core spirit, a zeitgeist, that feels incontrovertible to
the people trapped inside.  Questioning the fundamentals is a special kind
of heresy--the height of bad ethos—for it undermines the magnum opus of
an entire culture.

In search of truth, people question anyway.

Newton and Einstein may have believed they couldn't determine everything,
and in particular, that some people just weren't worth the risk.  But they
believed that with the right tools, someone could figure it all out.

No one agrees on even that anymore.


---


I slip back into the hallway and wander till my ears prickle at the harmony
of laughter.

I had made my way past the kiln, past the school's hearth.

Roosevelt bounces around in my mind.  I do fancy a fireside chat.

I make my way inside.

"Hey Travis!  You here for Art Club?"

It's Cynthia.  Chris's girlfriend.  She strikes me as so fake, I kind of
want to punch her, just to see what happens.  Where's Zane when you need
him for a good bet?  My guess is that a bunch of plastic and rubber and
cockroaches will pop out of her.  She's like the boogeyman in Nightmare
Before Christmas.

"Last time we talked, you told me my pottery looked like a dick," I say.

One of her friends got to her, didn't they?  She won't act cruel around
them.

I wish I knew those friends better.

Cynthia even has to keep her paranoia in check.

I've wondered—is paranoid the right word to describe someone who is
unhealthily obsessed with a partner who is really cheating?

Maybe I should tell Cynthia just how far Chris has shoved his cock up my
ass.

"I was just trying to break the ice," Cynthia says.  "You know you are one
of the best sculptors.  You'll probably win a prize at the art show."

I'd gotten second place in the ceramics portion last year, for a vase I'd
done.  Calvin's older brother Brett had gotten first.  But now that he
graduated, I guess that made me a frontrunner.  I'd always revered him.
Copied him really.  No one ever gave him hell for pursuing both art and
sports.  Not like they'd given me.

But I wasn't maligned for what I'd done.  It was for how I was perceived.

As a freak.  And everything else just morphed into further evidence of
that.

"Aren't you supposed to be at wrestling practice?" Cynthia asked meekly.

"I quit."

"Why?"

I might as well be a zoo animal, for all the stares I get.

"Because I suck."

There is a bit of a pause.

"No one is using the pottery wheel," Cynthia says.

I wrinkle my lips and make my way over, trying to find peace in the clay
spinning through my palms.

But there's no creative will in me today.

Everything I start collapses.

A small part of me hopes they aren't still watching, but mostly, I don't
care.


---


I cut away from Art Club after not too long.

I am to get there before Zane finishes wrestling practice—those were the
instructions he gave me, when he granted permission to quit the team.

428 Cuyahoga Dr.

Not the main house—not that concrete slab monstrosity that seems to
vaguely concede that people need to live in something.

But in the back, in the "dog house" as he called it.  Zane didn't want me
in his home without him. Waiting in the old tool shed built by his father
makes for a fine compromise.

I don't hear the frogs or cicadas now, as I creep through the forest.

I only hear my feet chomping away at the leaves.  They slip beneath me,
rimmed with a bit of ghost-grey frost.

I see the shed before I see the house, framed by trees and leaves.  I brush
a branch to the side and look on, my heart slowing.

I could just go home, right?

I could walk away from all this?

Inside my mind, there is laughter.  Walk away from Zane?  Walk away from
everything?

That would be like the moon walking away from the earth.  My life revolves
around him.

I'd rather live a real life as a faggot than a fake life as a man.

But even that's obscuring the details.

There is no `rather'.  Not really.

I will do what Zane says.  I will.

I circle round the shed, pushing the old door open.  The musty hinges groan
at me; the door swings at a bit of an angle.

Zane helps me understand.

The light switch is one of those archaic pull-down cords made of little
brass beads.  I find it easily, but not before a few sticky, clingy cobwebs
find me.

Wooden shelves have been nailed right into the walls.  Every inch is
cluttered with rusty tools and jars.  A little hole in the bottom corner of
the room prickles my senses, and I half-expect little whiskers to nudge
through at any moment.

A chill runs down my spine.

Am I walking into Zane's torture chamber?

Run.  The little voice in my head.  Run.

I quell it, streaking my hand along the work table.  A plush, purple pillow
sits on it, holding down a note.



Cunt-face,

Glad you made it to the dog house.  You'll notice under your pillow (you're
welcome!) is a new pair of underwear.

Now that you are no longer a wrestler, you are forbidden from wearing
jockstraps.  Those you will return to me.

Put on your new underwear, but only part way, so some of your ass is
exposed.  That's how prison bitches do it, to be accessible, and I miss it.
:(

Wait in the faggot pussy position on the worktable.  Brainstorm what I want
to see when I get home from a tough workout with the guys.  Soon I'll take
care of my little faggot princess.

Kisses, Zane



The underwear is pink.

I disrobe and put it on part-way, leaving the cleavage of my ass exposed.

Then I lie down on the worktable, jut my ass up, and nuzzle into the
pillow.

Slowly, I drift away.


---


Soothing, wet warmth blankets my hole.

"Mmf!" I groan, biting down on the musky jockstrap.  How did that get in my
mouth?  Master must have manipulated me in my daze.

What a way to get awoken.

I swivel my head back, my view obscured by the hills of my own ass.  In the
vale between, I see Zane's piercing eyes and the smoky fringe of Mohawk
hair.

His eyes flash as he licks my hole, prodding the star.

My hole clenches, hugging his tongue as it digs inside.  I buck, flexing my
ass.

I spit out the jockstrap, moaning freely as he swirls inside.

"Please—master," I croak.

He ignores me, retreating from my hole and lapping at my crack slowly,
stretching my collapsing trench until I am faint of breath.

"Please.  Fuck me."

He roughly handcuffs my wrists.  I grind my ass into his face, meeting his
lashing tongue.

"Please."

Zane vaults onto the worktable, crawling over me till I'm buried in his
cool shadow.

He grabs my hair, tugging, making me twist my neck and look into his eyes.

He rolls his tongue along the corner of his half-open mouth, nibbling it.
I jut my ass out permissively, my eyes widening.

"I didn't have a problem with you pretending to be one of the guys," Zane
says.  "I thought Chris was the one pushing to be my girl.  But you can't
let him take that away from you."  Zane grabs my underwear, pulling it
back, and letting the waistband snap back against the bottom of my ass.
"You need to affirm that in my eyes, you are my pussy.  My BITCH."

I sigh.  "There's little more you can do to emasculate me at this
point—short of cutting my balls off."

Zane breathes in my ear.  "Don't give me ideas."

I whine like a puppy.

"The whole reason for putting something in your mouth," Zane says, balling
up his jockstrap, "is to make you shut the FUCK UP."  He shoves the black
jockstrap back in my mouth.  Then, he pulls his red one off the worktable,
stretching it around my head, making me wear it on my face, one of his
signature moves.  The second one holds the first in place, obscuring my
vision, and feeding my nostrils the stench of Zane's crotch.

My eyes roll back; I push my ass up as high as it will go.  Zane drags his
cock along my moist trench.  He puts his tight weight on me, lining his
cock along my crack.

He brushes the hair away from my ear.  "Miss me—faggot?"

He slowly pulls off my new underwear, which didn't cover up much of
anything to begin with.  I can only imagine what he sees: A faggot princess
snorting his crotch sweat, shucking off a tight, silk fabric prison,
eviscerating its half-ass job of shielding her pussy from him.

"I own this ass," Zane says, palming my ass cheeks.  He kneads them twice
over, breathing in my ear.  "I own you."

He prods my hole.

"I'm in the mood to fuck slave pussy tonight."

Despite the handcuffs, I can still reach my ass cheeks and pull them
slightly further apart.

I sniff and lick Zane's jockstrap, shaking.

He powers his cock inside.


---


"What's there to discuss?" Damerae says, frowning at the stupid question
Mr. Andrews asked.  "Democrats want justice.  Republicans find that
inconvenient.  It's no debate at all."

"Please," Cynthia says.  "Democrats are the biggest phonies.  Pro-justice?
Democrats bribe their voters.  And guess who pays for it?  What's fair
about that?"

I could speak out.  A couple months ago, I would have.  But—I just don't
see the point anymore.

Zane's voice booms and my ears perk up.

"Whenever people seem to hate each other as much as Democrats and
Republicans, you know they must secretly love each other.  It's like Romeo
and Juliet."

I feel a prickling sensation in my balls.

A few people exchange smirks, but most are too caught up taking sides.

Damerae's eyes flash.  "How could you be neutral?  You've been behind bars.
You've been caged.  You've seen the callous non-solutions the Republicans
have to offer."

Cynthia blinks twice.  "Anything bad that happened to Zane he deserved
twice over."

"I don't believe in wishing bad things for people," Damerae says.  "Even
Zane.  Have you been listening this whole year, Cynthia?  The history of
America is the history of one culture pillaging and wrecking everything it
touches.  Democrats are phonies?  At least they don't run directly away
from humility, straight off a cliff."

"Sure they do.  That's all they do."

"Aren't they sweet together?" Zane asks.

"Enough," Damerae says.  "I'm no Romeo."

"I never said you were," Zane says.  "You're clearly playing Juliet."

"Whatever.  You are sexist.  Racist.  Probably every `ist' there is."

Cynthia chuckles.  "Democrats at their finest. Everyone who disagrees is a
bigot!  At this point, being privileged is at least as stigmatized as
anything else."

"Both of you sicken me," Damerae grumbles.

"The Mantague's send their finest," Cynthia whispers.

I choke back pointless words.

Zane laughs.

"Revulsion.  It's is a defense mechanism, shielding a culture from
complications deemed too taxing.  Fabricating exploitable social strata.
The hatred protects people from looking into the painful, shadowy mirror of
their desires that outsiders reflect."  He pauses, taking a moment to stare
at ceiling tiles, giving my dick time to hoist full mast.

Then he barrels onward.  "The two parties, with their dimorphic
proclivities, could each be good for something--could each provide the
other with a missing piece.  They could sculpt and nurture one another into
something more complete.  The lust to win--is not always so productive.
Not if people fail to see they are consumed by the strata that has them so
vainly lost."

For a moment there is silence.  Then Cynthia cuts back in.  "Eh.  You'd be
a lousy casting director.  Why does Damerae get to be Juliet?"

"Because," Zane says, "Democrats are pussies and Republicans are dicks."

"Enough!" Mr. Andrews says, looking up from his computer.  "I should have
known you can't have one serious conversation about politics, Zane.  This
might not have been a farce, but of course you have to ruin everything.  Go
see the counsellor, before I give you after school detention."  Mr. Andrews
snarls at the general class.  "Anyone else want to be sent out?"

I raise my hand.


---


I'm a bit better with the wheel today.  Not quite sure what I'm making, but
it hasn't fallen apart yet.

"Can I talk to you in the hall?"

I look up from my craft.  The sweetness has dulled in those blue eyes.

"Hey, Calvin," I say, a bit amused.  "It's the middle of class.  What are
you doing here?"

"Faked a bathroom run.  This is important.  Let me talk to you a second."

Calvin has developed a bit of nerve.  You'd think the art teacher would at
least ask what Calvin was doing, crashing our class.  Granted, she does
have a bit of a reputation for being hands-off.

I roll my eyes.  "Fine," I say, abandoning my post.

Calvin makes sure the door is shut before he speaks.  "We have to do
something about Zane.  He needs to be brought down."

"Why?"

"Because—he's totally deranged and things are completely out of
control?"

"I think he's the only one that makes sense.  He's in complete control.
That's the idea."

"Zane is not a good person."

"What are you talking about?  Zane is the definition of a good person."

"You must at least acknowledge that Zane is not always nice."

"Life isn't about always being nice.  Native Americans were nice.  Look
where that got them."

"Being mean wouldn't have helped them either.  They just didn't have the
power to change what was happening."

"Sure."

"What is wrong with you?"

"I don't know.  I'm not—without empathy.  But how do you know you are
right, trying to bring down Zane?  What if you are just coming up with an
intellectual defense for mistreating him?  Maybe you should have asked
Chris for help instead."

"Chris isn't built for adversity like you are!  He doesn't have tolerance
for it.  You are the best chance I've got."

"Then you have no chance at all."

Calvin's lip quivers.  "Don't you understand?  Don't you understand I want
to help you?  That I care about you?  That this isn't just about Coach
sending me anymore?  That it never really was in the first place?"  He
sniffs.  "That I can't stand what Zane has done?"

"Because you don't have the tolerance for it either.  But I don't need your
help.  Or want it.  Don't come to me with something like this again,
Calvin.  If you do, I may have to teach you a lesson."

Calvin turns away, his sorrowful expression chipping away at the fortress
of my mind.

I go back to the Art Room to clean off the wheel—but that's it for me.
I'm ready to check out of reality for the rest of the day, and check back
into Travis-land.

I conjure Zane up in my mind, dropping to my hands and knees before him.

I salivate like a lowly animal.

Barely comprehending the Master I live to serve, but serving faithfully
anyway.

I have to watch out or I'll cream my shorts, right here in the middle of
school.  Without Zane's permission.

I slap my cheek, willing my lust to relinquish its vice-grip on me.
Struggling to contain it.  To keep my mind united.

As soon as the day ends, I split.

I may finally have found a routine I look forward to.

I float dreamlike back to Zane's place—it's hazier the second time
around.  I lie down on the worktable, shoving my ass up and snuggling into
the pillow.


     Slowly climb the pyramid
     The pharaoh sleeps under
     You can't sense which way is up
     In afterlives you plunder


This time, I awaken from the haze with a cock swinging around, bouncing
back and forth between my lips and Master's sticky balls.

I crane my neck up, gazing past Zane's patchwork abdominals and dense
pectorals, and into his fierce eyes.

He glares at me, and I avert my gaze.

A reservoir of sweat glistens in the shadow of the "v" where Zane's
abdominals cut toward his crotch.  I curl my tongue under the ridge,
sweeping out the salty spice.

Master grates my hair and claws at the back of my head.  "Damn, you are
such a fucking faggot.  I bet you really would just lie there and let me
carve off your balls.  Do you have any self-respect?  Even a single
pathetic shred?"

I drag my tongue along.  The precipice points me sharply onward.

"What's to respect?" I croak.  I open wide, stick my tongue out, and
reposition my open cunt-face.  My lips draw precariously closer to the head
of the growing, twisted, uncut cock till it dominates my visual field.

Zane grips my head with both hands.  "You really want my cock, don't you
fag?"

I sniff in the dirty flavor.  "Uh-huh."

He reaches out, grips my balls, and squeezes hard.  "I just don't even know
what to do with you anymore."

"Huh."

The truth is, he knows exactly what to do with me.

He fucks my faggot face.  At first I slurp and smack my lips, but soon that
gets in the way, so I open wide till my jaw clicks, helping him use me.  My
mental faculties disintegrate—the only purpose of my head is to give the
ultimate pleasure, taking any pain Master awards me in the process.

Nothing else matters.


---


Zane grabs me after U.S. History.  "There's something on your mind."

Is it the next day already?  They run together.

I clear my throat.  "I'm trying not to let it wander, sir."

"And yet it does."

I stare at him.  Afraid to look into his eyes, I watch his lips curl.

"Do you think girls are better at complementing guys than cundangos are?" I
ask.

"It's not a debate that people will allow to take place," Zane says,
shrugging.  "You saw Cynthia and Damerae going at it.  Their minds clamp
down like skin stretching around a wound.  They just refuse to let it in.
It's about evil deviants or evil bigots.  No one is really objective."

"But why would that stop YOU?  What do you think?"

"Men and women tend to favor certain roles.  Our sense of masculinity and
femininity helps compose everyone--socially.  Different people are better
prepared for different situations.  But you don't have to be a woman to
show femininity."

"So you don't wish I was really a girl?"

Zane pauses.  "Women and men have evolved to produce the best children they
can, and their behavior often echoes this.  Cundangos have evolved to
disappear, and their behavior is whatever vestigial patchwork of
masculinity and femininity gets them through life."

"Disappear?  Have you seen Ru Paul's Drag Race?"

"A short-term cover up.  A flash in the pan."

I pause.  "So you are sad...you can't knock me up?  You can't make
something more—perpetual—with me?"

"Maybe a bit," Zane says.  "But it's not that big a deal to me."

"You sound so cavalier.  But you'd hate it if someone thought of you as
feminine.  As diplomatic, even.  I mean, why get those tattoos if you don't
care about social stuff?  If you don't care about how you are perceived?
You don't escape culture, let alone fix it.  You just trade one issue for
another."

Zane pulls me in, whispering into my ear.  "You assume I want to fix
culture.  But you heard Damerae and Cynthia going at it.  There is
no—fixing--that amount of bitterness.  I'd just as soon let it—END.
I'm not that sentimental.  I don't mind toppling things.  I like to rebuild
things from the ashes on up."  He backs off of me, sneering.  "I want you
to come to wrestling today."

I look down.  "I just can't pretend I'm one of you anymore."

"Who says you have to?  I'm not looking to WRESTLE you, punk."  He smirks
at me.  "I had something else in mind."

"I can't show my face there."

"So don't," Zane says.  He tosses me a black ski mask.  "Let me tell you
exactly what you are going to do."

He leans forward and breathes in my ear slowly.

I close my eyes, my heart thumping, as I absorb his words.


---


I open my eyes, knowing that I'm naked.

Zane had given me the ski mask, to shroud my obscene face.

I slowly pull it down, flattening my prickly hair, rolling it over my
cheeks.

Like a whore who won't kiss, it's reassuring to hold a little back.  It's
sweet to invert which parts are private.

My dick swings; my balls bounce; my slave pussy twitches.

I push it up, getting in the position.

I'm in the room with the mats.  My heartbeat chugs along.  If someone
besides Zane finds me...

They'll think I've gone mad.

The odds are low.  No one frequents this corner of the school, and on
Fridays, Coach tends to let the team get some fresh air by working out on
the football field.  Besides, the doors are locked, meaning only Zane or
someone with keys can get in.

But what if Coach finds me like this?

The lock clicks.  I hold my breath.

I see the hawk of hair cut through the doorway before the rest of him.  He
leers at me, closing the door and locking it again, dropping the lock pick.

I turn my head, burying my facemask in the mat, blackening the world around
me.  I spread my legs out slightly.

Zane pushes down on my head and blows in my ear.  "Hey, faggot.  Do you
miss men pinning you down here?"

"Yes, sir."

He slides his hand down my back, gripping my ass. He drags his finger
through the trench, needling my hole, before pulling on my balls firmly,
drawing them as far away from my body as they will comfortably go.

Then he pulls a bit further.

I whimper.

He grabs my hands and cuffs them, chafing my wrists.  Then he plants a kiss
on the hill of my ass.

I writhe around; he repositions his legs to pin down my triceps; I feel a
tug on my balls again.

Zane tongue-jabs the soft spot of my sack between the balls.  Then he laps
at my sack, getting it all wet.  He ignores my shuddering and grunting.

He sweeps up the middle line of my ball sack, tonguing my perineum till he
reaches my hole.

"I'm yours," I murmur.

He plunges his tongue inside.  I push my ass up into his face.

He spreads my ass cheeks wide apart and licks my hole.

A shiver runs down my spine; my hole clenches; Zane exults.

"Your body and mind aren't at war anymore."

Once, as tentative allies, they battled Zane.  He took ownership and pitted
them against each other.  Like a cock fighter toying with lesser animals.

Divide.  Conquer.  Master.

"Fuck me."

My voice is muffled.  The ski mask has slits for eyes, but no hole for my
mouth or nose.

"Hold your horses, princess."

My chapped lip snags on fabric.

"What if—someone notices you are gone from practice?"

"Coach expects me to miss a bit.  We're supposed to be convincing you to
re-join the team."

"We?"

On cue, someone bangs on the door.

"Right," Zane says, stroking my back.  He gets up and struts to the door,
knocking rhythmically.

The person on the other side knocks back, finishing the refrain.

Satisfied with the rhythm, Zane opens the door, ushering his cohort inside.

I steal a look, the sight obscured a bit by the mask.  Zane locks the door
behind him.

Eduardo.

"What the fuck?" Eduardo says, throwing his head back, bearing his teeth,
and letting out a hearty laugh.  "Who would let this happen to them?"

"It didn't happen TO coin.  Coin made it happen.  Coin was what happened."

"Hell.  Look at that bitch ass!  How many girls have an ass like that?"

"Just this one."

"And you really just—walk over and shove your cock inside?"

"When I want to."

"I dunno.  It just seems—not possible."

"Because you can't imagine me getting my thick dong in there?  Or just the
idea is unthinkable?"

"Both."

Zane looms over me.  I hear his jockstrap brushes against his skin, I see
the color flash in the corner of my eye.  Then it droops to the floor.

He spits in his hand.

click Click CLICK.

I feel the hardness stressing my pucker.

My hole opens and imbibes his cock, inch after twisting inch.

"Holy fuck," Eduardo croaks, awestruck.  "It just SWALLOWED it right up."

"That's what it does," Zane says, patting my ass.

His cock goes in easily, and yet, it's still a deeply compacting sensation,
followed by an equally hollowing one.  I gape, my lips scratching against
the mask again.

Zane takes note, grabbing my head and tilting it back.

"She likes to do things with her mouth," Zane says.  He rolls the mask up
some, blinding me, but exposing my mouth and nose to the cool air.  He
drags his fingers over my open lips, and I kiss his palm softly.

He drives his cock inside my ass.

My body rocks forward; I gape.

Something salty, meaty, and moist ensnares my senses.  I snort it in.  Dewy
barbs of hair prickles my face.  I nestle forward, planting my lips.

Eduardo gasps, flexing his arm around my head, forcing me deeper.  "You're
right, man!  This puta is going to town on my armpit.  What the hell?
That's fuckin' sick, man."

Lalo doesn't seem too interested in stopping me.

"You owe me twenty more bucks," Zane says, hammering me.

"No man—the bet was—he wouldn't lick my ass."

"You really think he won't, at this point?"

"Only one way to find out."  Eduardo releases my face, tapping my cheek
playfully.  "We're supposed to be convincing you to join the team, puta."

"I know I'm not one of you," I say, my voice cracking.  "It's like you
said."

"That was back when YOU didn't understand.  But now you do.  You don't
actually have to wrestle.  You can be the team cundango.  Take turns giving
me and Zane head at the back of the bus."

Zane throttles me, and my tongue droops out of my open mouth.  I leave it
there, tilting my head towards where I would expect it to be if I could
look into Eduardo's eyes.

All I see is darkness.

"If Zane wants."

"What do you think, Zane?"

"I think coin should lick your ass."

There's a brief scuffle between them.  I feel Eduardo's body flipping; I
hear the brush of his boxers coming down.

Zane pushes my head forward, into a new pit.  It's similar to the one
before, but muskier, spicier, and danker.  The flavor is more consuming.
Slowly, I tongue the trench, sniffing deeply.

"HO-LY SHI-IT.  What is wrong with this faggot?"

"She loves eating ass.  It's not her fault.  Don't be mean."

Eduardo's hole tightens around my tongue.

I prod it till it opens slightly, slurping playfully.

"You keep saying she," Eduardo breathes.  "But it's not quite right, is it?
Travis still has muscles.  Still has—the energy--you'd expect from a
man.  Just none of the attitude."

Zane nibbles my shoulder.  "Faggot has the libido of a stud, with the
deference of a bitch."

"A cundango," Eduardo says between gasps.  "A fuckin' cundango whore.  Fuck
it.  I need to get off."

I whimper.

"Cundango wouldn't suck my dick earlier," Eduardo says, pulling my face out
of his ass.  "Isn't that right?"

"Mmn-hmm."

"Why?"

"Zane—I only suck Zane's."

I lie there--waiting--as they grab the reins of the conversation.

"So—I guess your fag won't do just anything," Eduardo says.

"Itching for another bet?" Zane says, slowing his thrusts.

"Twenty bucks?"

"How about fourty?"

"Aww, man!"

"Don't be such a piker."

"I'm gonna be fuckin' broke."

"Probably.  Isn't it a win-win?  You either get your money back—or get
another go at the sweet mouth that has you bouncing off the walls."

"Fuck, you know me too well.  It's like watching a train crash, bro.  I
just—can't stop—watching it.  Alright, last bet, you hustler."

Eduardo rustles around, flipping again, then pushes my face into his balls.
"You like that, mamapinga?"

I sniff his balls and shudder, turning my head away.

Eduardo drags his dick across my neckline, slugging out a line of smegma
from his uncut cock.

"I can make you suck it, right, girl?" Zane says.

I nod.

I root out Eduardo's dick and lick tentatively twice, then wrap my lips
around the head.

Charcoal.  Chaos.  Darkness.

Coughs overtake me; I convulse; I turn my head to the side, spitting up
Eduardo's cock.

"Looks like you lost, bro—"

Just then, Zane grabs me by the back of the head and slams me down on
Eduardo's cock till it tickles my tonsils.

I roll back and forth; I wrench my wrists against the cuffs; my eyes bug
out, brushing against fabric.

Necklace clenching.  Metal revolving.

I whine like an animal.

Bile rises in my throat.  Eduardo's pumping dick forces it back down.

I'm going to die.

I gag.  I choke.  I flex every muscle; I strain every vein.

I stretch as far as I can go, as they pound me to the brink.

Zane pulls on my head, craning my back a little further.

I can barely breathe.  My throat is on fire.

I collapse; the battle driven from me.

Eduardo prods my lips with the head of his cock, testing me.

Zane twists his cock deep in my ass, teasing me.

click, Click, CLICK.

My energy floods back.  Except this time, I do not struggle to fight them.

I struggle to please them.

I tongue and suck and swallow Eduardo's cock in my throat, moaning.

I clench and pump and absorb Zane's cock in my ass, whimpering.

I writhe and fuck myself madly.

"Jesus."

"Faggot's on a mission."

I see what I had not seen before.

The vestiges of a woman who cannot bear a child; the vestiges of a man too
vitiated to procreate; the vestiges of two ideals, counterpoised and
inversed, shoe-horned into terminal coexistence.

With three more brutish thrusts, I feel Eduardo pulsing in my mouth.  The
gamey taste electrifies me from my fingertips to my toes.  I swallow shot
after shot after shot.  I back off, and four more shots blemish my neck and
mask.

Zane, emboldened by yet another victory, lets loose on my ass, gutting me
till I'm numb.

Eduardo lets me suck the leaky head of his cock as I'm utterly swamped by
the darkness.

Blinded, yet full of faith, I assimilate their essence into me.


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