Taste of Power

Taste of Power by: Krazytop ---

Part XIV

Chris smirks, twisting the chain again, and I emit a gargling noise. Then he tugs sideways, pulling me off the couch and onto my knees.

He raises his eyebrows, his eyes shining. "Keep fighting back."

I can't focus with my airflow restricted like this. I drop soft punches, but he flexes out and shrugs them off. He tugs on the necklace, slapping my cheeks against his quadriceps; then he drags my face down his leg.

"Kiss my feet," Chris growls. "I know you like that."

I can't really suck when I am choked like this, so I drag my lips and tongue around the crown of his foot, hoping that will do.

Things get kind of hazy, and I collapse forward.

Chris drops the necklace, the shark tooth clinking on the cement.

I gasp—opening my eyes wide and gazing up at him. I cough and clench my side and sputter for air.

Then, I curl up on the floor in the fetal position, my eyes closed.

"Travis?"

"It's nothing," I croak. I try to catch my breath. "So much has happened so fast," I whisper.

It is quiet for a time. Then he nods.

"What do you suppose you want?" Chris asks, padding my chest with the bottom of his feet.

"Can we just lie down together? I want to lie in your arms—and just—dream."

"Okay," Chris says.

"Okay?" I repeat. "That's fine? Just lying around?"

Chris shrugs. "You've had a rough week."

He picks up the shark tooth and tugs up, ushering me to my feet. I give him a look, but he laughs it off.

Chris dons his clothes and I follow suit. I track his steps up the rickety stairs out of the cellar. When we reach the prickly cold night air, I half expect to get mauled by a wild animal, like a tiger, or perhaps Zane, but instead there is a droning softness.

At first it is just the crickets and frogs. Then, the swirling shadow in front of the street light streaks to life with a monotone buzz.

Cicadas.

They hardly ever sing at night, but the moon is bright in the sky, and perhaps they are confused...

There's a spiral staircase on the side of the house, which leads to a raised balcony outside of Chris's room.

"Will your parents care that I am over?" I ask.

The cicadas grow louder.

"Only if they find out," Chris says. "They are on the other end of the house. Our family is less warm than you might think. We keep to ourselves after dinner—and they usually eat out. It was a bit more lifelike before my sister Cathy went off to college."

"You want me here every night? Through Christmas?"

"Sounds good." Chris says.

"But—to spend the night? My parents will wonder."

"Well, you aren't a little kid anymore, are you? It's not so strange to stay out late with friends these days. They should be happy you aren't being a hermit anymore."

I roll my eyes, and Chris tugs on my necklace again.

Chris keys into his room and brushes his lips with his finger.

Chris points out the extra gear in his medicine cabinet for me to brush my teeth and floss. Then he paces around the room in what appears to be his nightly ritual, setting the alarm, messing with his bed, and eventually, hitting the lights. I grope through the darkness, watching Chris shrug off his clothes. The moonlight flecks his muscles and the curves of his shoulders with little coronas of light.

I feel clumsy as I undress and crawl onto the bed.

Chris collapses next to me, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me into him. I soften, basking in his warmth—his aura.

I can't think or feel clearly.

I let the images find my eyelids again.

If I can't work it out while I am awake, I will have to work it out in my dreams.

What makes an idol false? And what makes an idol true? You can't always decide What choice is up to you?

I wake up in hot sweat. It's still dark outside—but the moon is bright.

It takes me a minute to remember where I am. Not in my bed, not at the hotel, not at Zane's.

Chris's arm drapes around me. I feel the little soft brown hairs with my palm. I roll over.

God he smells good. I want to lick the sweat off his body. Those big curved muscles rise and fall as he breathes and I want to sink into them. The wrinkles are gone from his face. His upper and lower eyelashes interweave. His mouth curls closed and dimples crest into little crescents at the edges of his cheeks. His wet lips glimmer in the starlight.

I lean in and suck them softly.

I hear Chris exhale from his nose and I open my eyes. Chris's eyes are blurry—shadowy gold, with a tiny reflection of the moon flecking deep within each of them. He grips the back of my head and pulls me into him. His lips are on mine now; his motions are dynamic and vigorous. I get the sense he can feel the desire etched in my skin. He pushes my lips open with his tongue and then works through to me. It feels like sunlight cutting through clouds.

I hum into his lips.

Chris is kissing me.

Oh my fucking god, Chris is kissing me!

He stops and pulls away.

"So," he says, feeling up my hard-on, "did you wake me up to talk about the meaning of life?"

My heart is racing.

I sigh. "Chris—I—I dunno. I think you know I'm deeply—I really—" I am glad he can't see my face. "Chris—it's hard for me. I feel so FRAGILE around you. I'm not trying to be emotional. I want to feel that I'm making good choices. I feel like I have been on this roller coaster with Zane, and now I'm so—frazzled. Spending a bit of time with Calvin here and there calms me down some—but it's a bit like pee-wee golf in comparison."

I stare up at the ceiling, hoping I make a shred of sense, and Chris waits a second before filling the silence.

"Sounds like Zane is too intense, and Calvin is not intense enough. Maybe you are like Goldilocks and you like how I am the lukewarm, more versatile option."

"Please," I say.

"No really," he murmurs back.

"You are beyond self-assured," I say, trying to remember to keep my voice down to a whisper. "It's not that you might ever make mistakes, or that you are inconsistent—or just plain fake. No; it's all part of finding that `just right' balance."

"Do I detect a note of sarcasm?" Chris asks, chuckling. But something I said struck a nerve. I can feel his heartbeat hasten. "Everyone is self-assured, in their own way. The guy who says everything that pops into their head insists that they do a great job of standing up for themselves. The one who never says anything thinks that they aren't wasting people's time with pointless debate. And someone who is in-between muses that whatever balance they've found happens to be, quite naturally, the right one. I suppose—I would acknowledge--I think self-righteousness can be a kind of mask for jealousy."

He inhales and churns onward.

"People who are too outspoken wish they weren't so irritable and unlikeable. People who are too quiet wish that others would solicit and incorporate their opinions. And people in-between wish they weren't cursed with complications and the imperfections that descend from them."

"Yes. I'm sure yours is a very cursed life."

"Well—it's true—it isn't bad like Zane's. But you see--Zane believes vehemently that his hardship has strengthened him. That it has entitled him to greatness. Do you really think Zane doesn't wish he had a family that loved him? Or wealth? Or a cleaner slate? I'm just saying—that sad story doesn't merit a WIN. You know how in the Olympics on TV, they'll show that five minute back-story for Michelle Kwan or whoever, showing how hard her life was, before she skates... then she falls flat on the ice—SMACK—and loses. That's why the Olympics are better than the movies. If there is a secret to winning, it has nothing to do with having a stirring back-story. Save that shit for the college applications. If there is a secret to winning, it has to do with cultivating talent, getting a bit lucky, and if push comes to shove, cheating."

I snort at the last part. "Are saying—you are jealous of Zane in some ways?"

"That does seem to follow." Finally, the glint is back in Chris's golden eyes.

"In what way?"

"Can you think of nothing?" Chris says, running a pair of fingers down my neck. He leans in and whispers into my ear, "I'm sure you know that people have been talking about your haircut, your earring, and your necklace. But maybe you didn't know that people have been talking about the red bite marks on your neck."

Chris exhales slowly onto my neck. Warm moisture lingers from his breath.

"So—" I say, closing my eyes, "How the hell do you decide when to stand up for yourself, then?"

"I think you can tell that as I try to find a balance—I am a tad—conflicted." He draws away from me, thumbing his cheek. "It has to be that way, though. No school of thought can make sense of everything. Think a philosophy through long enough, and you will find it can't solve everything. You will even find that it seems to contradict itself. You can't judge the virtues of a philosophy merely on how much it solves for you. You need to look at how cordially it accepts its own shortcomings."

I click my tongue. "I have yet to meet someone who cordially accepts their own shortcomings. It seems to be an unspoken rule that apologies are—ironically—for people without status, like little kids, who only do so when bossed into it. People view remorse as a call to an argument, or sometimes, an invitation to get punched in the face. With all that's happened, and with all of the lofty rationales I've heard, neither you nor Zane seems willing to spare an inch of status for any reason at all."

Chris laughs, more openly than usual. "Zane has made me out to be some kind of privileged, unworthy villain, like Voldemort or Mitt Romney—which I'm not. I'm not a villain at all. Heaven knows Zane has paid prices to be the way he is. But life isn't just a competition for the best bragging rights in sob-stories. And perhaps the prices I've paid haven't been so steep, but it would be nice to know that people thought they counted for something. Or at least acknowledged they existed."

I snort. "What prices have you paid, Chris, really? It seems like you have everything."

"But I really don't. My life is like a game of football where the refs extend the end-zone by ten yards every time I almost reach it, and each time they hire another monkey to pull me backwards in order to prevent me from getting there."

"I guess bad things happen to everyone," I say, shrugging lifelessly.

Chris wrinkles his mouth. He starts to rub my back, which catches me off guard. I close my eyes, trying to roll with it. Chris sucks on his tongue. "Even if I win day in and day out, it just becomes mundane. Victors are supposed to be humble and remind everyone they aren't so special. People who lose aren't allowed to be hopeless either. That's why the Calvins of the world seek you out and give you a push, even if you didn't ask for it."

"So Calvin is a conscripted culture monkey."

Chris's eyes flicker, but he opts to tread on.

"The worst is anxiety. You know I'm not supposed to have any. People expect apprehension to be beneath someone like me. Since everything seems to be going my way, people would find it odd if I said much of anything sad or mad or opinionated. I couldn't have a political outburst like you did—yes, I've heard about that too. From you, it's a reflection of whatever internal storm is brewing. People take one look at me and assume I'm powerful, but clement. They temper their expectations and empathy accordingly."

"So you are trapped and frustrated. You need society's approval, because you don't want to be a crazy person, but you also need to go your own way, because you want to be yourself."

"Yeah."

"And you see a chance to take it out on the gay kid who is in love with you by treating him like shit. You figure that it might be something that society will let you get away with. Is that what you mean by being yourself? That's your justification?"

"Is this about me squeezing the necklace before? We were just goofing around—"

"No, I'm already over that," I say, pausing to remember to keep my voice down. "This is about calling me names and taking my things and making me do stuff. It's not so bad when we're alone together, but when I'm alone without you..." I bite my bottom lip and turn away slightly. I can't get the stinging sensation out of the corner of my eyes, or the lump out of the back of my throat.

"Travis—look at me. Travis!" He grips the back of my head and tilts it up at him. "Travis—I'm sorry. Ok? I'm sorry. I didn't want anyone to find out about us, and that's why I kept you an arm's length away. I'm sure now that I shoved too far. I was so angry... Do you think it didn't eat me up inside? Knowing that I drove you into Zane's arms? That he was sculpting you—into something else? He tried to make it seem like you two have so much in common, two downtrodden individuals one violent fuck away from the cure, but you know that it's me that you should be with. It's always been me—hasn't it?"

I try to look him in the eye briefly. "Maybe I've just been acting stupid. Maybe you have a girlfriend anyway, and I should just get over you. I just don't UNDERSTAND. Why can't I get over you? I feel like I've done everything I could to move on. But you are always cropping up in my mind..." I bury my face into his chest, hoping he can't sense the new moisture blending with his sweat.

"I don't want you to get over me, Travis. Not anymore. I'm trying to spell it out for you. I'm jealous of Zane—because of what he had with you. I just know that we could do it BETTER." Chris leans in and nibbles on my neck. He breathes on me again, slowly moving up till he is blowing in my ear. "I want to fuck you, Travis. Not like last time. Not like leftovers. Not an afterthought. I want to fuck you so good that you can never get over me, not tomorrow, not next week, not ever, because the guy from your dreams made them real and there is no beating that."

"Chris..." I whimper.

Chris's warm lips brush against mine, making them spark. "I can be nice," he says, rubbing my shoulders.

I try to slow my breathing—my heartbeat.

"And I can be mean too."

I feel the sting of his palm against my ass and my jaw drops in shock. Before I can even close my mouth, he pulls my face into his armpit.

Chris's wet lips find my ear and envelope it. He exhales. "I'm not a philosopher. So you'll just have to tell me if it feels just right."

I moan into his pit.

"C'mon Travis, drag your tongue against it," he whispers. My tongue falls out of my mouth and I strain it against his armpit over and over, his little hairs prickling me. The smell ensnares me. My dick grows harder and my body grows softer.

I draw the sweat from his pit and into my mouth over and over.

"Swallow it, boy," Chris says.

I drink his pit sweat down. It's richer than Zane's—less salty, but more flavorful. I'm lost in Chris now—there is no escape. I crave him. I abandon my pride and whine weakly, drinking from his pit like a starving animal.

Chris chuckles. His laugh is so much warmer than Zane's. There are times when Chris can be brutal and charming at the same time, because he is so playful and tantalizing—you just get captured in him. Zane, well, he is a whole other animal. Zane is at his best when he sees things not just as what they seem to be, but what they are when you look at them funny—what they could be, if the world twisted a little more. And somehow—he can be likeable in his own way too.

Chris and Zane are at their best when I am close to them—when I know them—when they know me.

"What do you think about when you swirl your tongue around like that?" Chris whispers.

I shiver.

"I want to make you happy," I say. My lips trace over his pit hairs as I speak. "I want to be your paintbrush—coating the sky with stars."

I lick him again, then sweep my lips against his hot, wet skin.

Chris chuckles, his lips finding my ear. "Don't leave your masterpiece half painted, then."

He pulls me out by my hair and shoves me into his other pit.

The totality of his musk entraps me. The victory sweat, born out of the tribulations of taking down Zane and Calvin in succession. I whimper and lap and suck. Chris rubs me around in his pit until every inch of my face is covered in it. The pressure on my head varies as Chris clenches his fist and softens his grip around my hair. Eventually he pulls me back, and I whine, slurping at air.

"You can just call me master for short," Chris says.

Chris won me over, didn't he?

The reality is setting in.

I am his slave. And he is...

"Yes--master," I whimper. I stick my tongue out and catch one last bead of sweat.

My exhaling becomes louder and rises in pitch.

Chris smirks.

"Tell me what you want," he says.

"I want your cock," I whisper. I lean in and suck on his neck. I drop kisses on his rounded pectorals as I move down. "Please, Chris. I want you to make me your bitch."

His fingers tangle in my hair as I move further down.

"Please, Chris."

Chris growls and tightens his grip on me. My lips graze his abdominals, which ripple with waves of light and darkness under my soft touch.

I can see the outline of his cock in his white silk boxers, and it looks downright vulgar stretching the fabric so far. A bead of moisture pools, outlining the head.

I slowly pull the waistband of his boxers away from his body. His cock flips out and a fleck of precum hops onto my lip. I lick it off. I tuck the waistband under his balls—which makes them balance, compressed one way and stretched another. Snug—tense. I move toward his balls, and Chris tightens his grip on my hair.

"Please, Chris. Please let me suck you. Please—let me make you happy. Please—master."

Chris squeezes my head with one hand and jacks his cock with the other. I shiver in spite of myself.

"What are you nervous about?" Chris asks.

"I want to be with you," I whisper. "But I'm afraid I want a dream of you—a vision of you—that isn't available in the real world."

The head of Chris's big cock snags on my lips. We let it rest there and I look up into his big gold eyes.

Chris smirks. "Maybe you just need to spend less time in your thoughts and more time in the physical world. I'm all kinds of real, Travis."

I kiss his cock softly—once, twice, three times.

Then, it slides naturally down my throat.

"Fuck," Chris says, his voice breaking. "The way your tongue flips—maybe Zane was right to nickname you `coin'."

I take him till his balls envelop my chin and his abdominals veil my face.

I feel Chris's hand pulling me off by my hair. He rips me off his cock and I feel a tear streaking down my cheek. "Chris," I whimper, looking down. "Please don't use Zane's nickname for me."

"You tired of getting tossed around? Want something a bit more stable?" Chris points my head up toward him again.

Every fiber of who I am shakes at the sight of him. I feel weak. I clear my throat.

"I want you inside me, Chris. I want to look into your eyes while you are inside me."

"Ride me," Chris says.

I swallow.

I get off the bed for a moment, pulling my underwear off. Chris's white silk boxers hit me in the face and I roll my eyes, brushing them away.

"Is this going to be too dry?" Chris asks.

He flips his big cock against his stomach. I take a moment to appreciate how beautiful he is. Defined, curved muscles stretch from his legs to his abs to his pecs; his biceps flex, shimmering in the starlight; the landscape of his hair, rolling from streaky to fuzzy along its hill of growth; his cocky, shadowed, golden-brown eyes; his convoluted smile; the shadow of a dimple forming on both sides...

"Zane likes to rim me," I say softly. Chris's eyes bug out and I laugh, stumbling back into the bed.

Chris pulls me into him and shoves two fingers in my mouth.

"I'm not going to do that, Travis," he says.

I nod around his fingers.

"This is the closest I get."

He pulls his fingers out of my mouth and drags them along my ass crack. I gasp. Chris rotates, shoving two fingers from his free hand into my open mouth, muffling me as he starts to finger my hole. My asshole absorbs the moisture from one hand while my mouth dampens the other.

Eventually, he exchanges his hands.

The fingers on my ass are wet again, but this time, they do not linger very long.

Chris shoves them inside.

I squeal around Chris's other fingers, tasting traces of my ass, and he laughs.

I snarl, crawling forward on top of him on my hands and knees. I lean back till his fingers are wrenched from my holes and my ass grazes his skin. Chris's cockhead gets wrapped up in my ballsack, stretching it out and stabbing me in vulnerable places. I fish it out, repositioning it at my crack, squeezing it at the base.

He lifts an eyebrow.

"I know you don't like my hands," I say, pouting, "but it's just for a second."

I lean back. I feel his big cock stretching against my ass cheeks. The pressure builds. His cock runs out of space to squirm out. It lingers at the cusp, my stubborn ass denying him entrance for now.

Chris looks up at me and I look into his eyes, biting my lip. He grips my shoulders—smirking—and he pushes me down.

I gasp as his cock opens my hole. The first few inches burrow inside.

"God Chris," I whimper. My mouth falls half-open; my eyes close; I wrench my face to the side. My body is shaking again.

"C'mon Travis. Paint us that dream in the stars."

I nod—failing to close my mouth. I palm my ass-cheeks with each of my hands, spreading them apart. I sink further down Chris's big cock, stifling a shriek. I feel Chris's hand cover my mouth and I suck on it hard. He slides his hand across my face and I kiss it over and over; sucking on his palm, the skin above the bones at the edge, and the wrinkles that ring the column of each finger. The tips lodge past my mouth and dig deeper. He slides his fingers over my tongue and towards my throat. I wrap my lips around them, sucking and moaning. I feel the familiar grip of his left hand on my hair.

He looks me dead in the eyes. With one hand inside my mouth, and the other above my head, he has complete leverage over me. His biceps flex and he forces me down. His fingers muffle my squeal as his cock impales me further. I reach down and wrap my hand around the base of his manhood. I still have several more inches to take and I am not sure that I can.

I knead my ass with my hands, coercing it to unclench—to temper. Chris tightens his grip on my head, and I feel my body relaxing. My hole opens and gravity pulls me balls-deep down around Chris's pipe. I whimper as my body softens. Then, my dick flips up and hits my stomach.

I suddenly remember the dream I was having back when I bolted awake.

I was back at the carousel—except this time I was the horse.

I grab my dick and jack it fiercely.

I try to shake the dream away. I focus on moving up and down on the huge pole inside me. It stretches me wide—I whine—it traces the spot in my ass that makes my eyes spark—this time, it is not my ass, but my rock-hard dick that hurts—white flashes before my eyes—and my dream lingers over me.

I was the metal horse. The world looked red through my eyes. I had a golden, metal pole that skewered me—that moved me from the inside—up and down, round and round—

Chris snarls, pulling his fingers from my mouth so he can knock my hand away from my dick.

He rubs my shoulders; forging circles there.

I move up and down on his cock, over and over, letting him fill me, making him stretch me, coercing the light to flash in front of my eyes until my dream blends with my vision again.

"Chris," I whimper.

"Take it, bitch," Chris snarls. "I know you can take it."

I start to ride him faster, slamming my ass balls-deep against him. He lies there, smiling and flexing. He can't adjust his arms to match my furious movements, so he tucks them behind his head instead. The hair in his armpits glints and I swallow.

I am doing all the work—sweat is pouring off of me—as I give Chris all that I know how.

Some of his hair has matted down and staggers over his forehead--beset by dewdrops of sweat. I reach down and brush it out of his eyes.

I look down at Chris. Shadowed amber and gold stares back.

Suddenly, I roll us over. Chris's cock slips out in the commotion. He is on top of me now. I hold my legs up, flashing him my hole.

"Pound me, Chris."

He doesn't need to be told twice.

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