Taste of Power

Taste of Power by: Krazytop ---

Part XVI

"Are you doing alright?" Calvin asks.

For the fourth time.

I feel a jumpy, systemic haze, like a weird dream that I go along with by default.

I didn't expect to find myself here. The New Years' Party was the only time I'd been to Calvin's house in years. I doubt Zane or Chris liked it, but they insisted it would make for neutral ground. Calvin's parents trusted him to take care of the house while they drove his brother back to Oberlin and killed a weekend there, so we had the place to ourselves.

Much of the furniture I recognize from years past, including the threaded couch, although it's grown frayed since we built forts around it.

But what Calvin did today put all our old forts to shame.

The living room is cleared, with the couch turned about at the edge. Stacked upon it are two side tables, a huge cabinet with ornate handles, a coffee table, a ceramic lamp, and the television, all in a haphazard mess. This arrangement opens up the space for us to horse around.

I climb over the couch and sit with my back to it.

Calvin follows and sits beside me.

"Sorry Chris and I didn't stay at your New Year's party longer."

"That's okay. I'm sure Chris and you had things to do. Enjoying his company, I suppose?"

"Mostly. A bit tired of being a poker chip," I mumble.

Calvin rubs my shoulder and I shove him away.

"Hey! What's that for?" Calvin asks, smirking. "I'm just saying—you don't have to be part of their games if you don't want to be. You can fix this mess if you want to."

"It's too late," I say.

"Too late for what?" Calvin asks.

"For everything."

We turn back to see where the voice came from.

Zane must have let himself in. He throws his bag into the pile of stuff on the couch before leering at us.

Not far behind him, Chris looms in the front doorway, balking at how Zane left it open.

"Did you want a snack or something?" Calvin asks.

"Ever the conscionable host," Zane says.

He climbs amongst the clutter on the couch cushions, standing as though on a platform. We crane our necks to look at him. He's wearing those slick black shorts, and he already has a bulge there. His wife-beater stretches tight across his chest, with little folds were it got caught in his muscles. He exudes a fresh smell; there may have been a bit of drizzle when he jogged through the forest. As he crosses his arms, he flexes them, and a stronger musk from his armpits wafts our way.

"Anyway, not hungry for food," Zane says. "Let's just get a move-on, shall we?" He sighs, then holds out the cup for us to choose straws. "Go on."

Calvin and I pick matching red straws—again.

Zane smirks. "Two peas in a pod. Nice draw, faggots."

Calvin stands, glowering at Zane and turning to face him. "You speak in a civil tongue in my house."

"I'm not saying you are gay, Calvin. I'm just saying, maybe you and Travis can wait to give each other supportive blow jobs until after the match." Zane grabs his own crotch. Since Zane's raised on the couch, even with Calvin standing to face him, he doesn't exactly exude authority.

Calvin glares into Zane's dancing green eyes. "You presumptuous bonehead," Calvin says. "It's too bad you won't beat Chris at wrestling, otherwise we could settle this on the mat."

"I suppose I was a tad presumptuous. I shouldn't assume either of you is capable of taking charge. Remember last time, Calvin, how I basically had to hold your hand? Getting your dick sucked...took you so far out of your element. You kept looking at me like, `Zane, please help me, this doesn't feel right! I don't belong here.' Pathetic."

"We all belong here."

"So PROVE IT," Zane hisses.

"Don't forget to strip down," Chris says.

He seems miffed that no one really greeted him.

I attempt to remedy that, nodding at him and pulling my clothes off without hesitation, keeping only the red jockstrap. I look over the others.

Zane's black jock; Chris's white silk boxers; Calvin's woven boxer-briefs, this time with a Jackie Chan Adventures theme.

Their bodies are as tight as ever.

"Stop drooling and start already," Zane says. He drops off the couch, standing a few steps apart from Chris, who wrinkles his lips, holding the distance.

I survey the room again. We'd once pretended to be gladiators fighting inside a ring of pillows here.

I suppose it was time to imagine the fighting pit again.

Walls lock in three sides; the turned-around couch serves as the last. There's a low-hanging chandelier to watch out for, but otherwise, the space is open. I've been in this room many times: watching movies, playing mokimon cards, or jumping around in my Halloween costume, but rarely has it been anything so—visceral.

"You sure you want to do this?" Calvin asks.

"That's what we're here for," I shoot back.

Calvin lunges at me.

His arms are at my shoulders; mine find his. He keeps twisting my shoulders and flexing, daring me to fall. I keep my footing as we push, pull, and flex, circling one another. He's the aggressor, but I manage to keep him at bay.

After a half-minute, I push away.

Chris's advice plays in my mind, but I silence it: it has either sunk in, or it hasn't.

Calivn and I breathe, almost in turn, as we stare each other down.

I move toward him, sinking low, and he mirrors me to cut off my attack. I circle him and he turns toward me, his eyes searching.

I dive toward Calvin, looking for an area of weakness; he flexes, recoiling; I grab him around the waist; he takes two steps backward, and hits his head against the wall.

He looks stunned for a second and I whip him over my shoulder and onto the floor.

"Sweet takedown," Chris says.

Calvin struggles to get up but I launch myself on him. Our arms tangle around each other's bodies and we roll around until we are side by side. My legs find their way between his legs, snaking around them and gaining leverage.

I start to twist, and his body shadows mine awkwardly. Calvin pulls me in, sweat rolling off of him as he clings to me like his life depends on it, but I won't relent; I continue to flex; I keep on twisting; there is a weakness in his form; he can't keep it up; he's breaking; he's twisting; he's on his back; I am on top of him; I flex harder; I push those shoulders into the imaginary mat—and suddenly—

Calvin is pinned.

"Fuck—" Zane says. "Did the fag just win?"

For a moment, no one dares to speak.

"I have been showing him a thing or two," Chris says. "Did—Travis just earn a round of freedom?"

After a minute's heavy breathing, I'm up; I get off Calvin and vault the couch to see the others. Calvin sheepishly follows.

I clear my throat. "The loser has to be the other one's slave till midnight," I say, repeating the rule in a kind of trance. "And...since it's a match involving me—the `no homo' rule doesn't apply."

Everyone looks surprised at me.

"Travis--I need to talk to you alone," Calvin says, his expression softening. "In my room."

"But if you are alone—how can someone make sure you hold up your end of the deal?" Zane asks, his voice laced with amusement. His eyes glimmer with a sense of knowing. He mouths the word `fag' when he catches Calvin's eyes.

"It's my call," I say.

A minute later, I'm in Calvin's room with him—alone. I turn the lock.

Calvin sits on his bed, staring at the wall.

"Is this the only time we can have a conversation now? In the middle of some dumb game?" Calvin asks.

"That's all we ever did, growing up. Play dumb games."

"As interstitials in life. Not instead of life."

"Interstitials?" I ask, pausing for a moment. "You mean the places between crystals?"

We'd grown crystals for a science project in middle school. I remember scalding myself with hot water when we tried to make the goopy solution. I'm not sure it was really all that scientific, but we tried to make it sound as official as we could, after we researched for our report.

"Yeah," Calvin said. "Don't you remember? There are pattern-breaking imperfections—interstitials--that remind you that the crystal wasn't grown in some sterile lab—that it's real. And hence worth something."

I consider pointing out how our crystals had been far from perfect--I doubt they were worth anything at all--but it occurs to me that they were worth something. To him, anyway.

"You know what Zane would say—that you are trying to worm your way out things. Since you're stuck--between a rock and a hard place."

"I cannot imagine caring less what Zane would say."

I look into his eyes and he looks right back. He puts his hand on my shoulder, rubbing it softly. Then, slowly, still looking into my eyes, he runs his hand down my chest.

He catches me off guard by standing up and sinking back down between my legs.

"I'll do it," Calvin says. "But not because of some stupid game. Because I WANT TO. I'm curious. I've been for a while. I was just too afraid to say it. It's high time you got a turn."

"Calvin..." I say, my thoughts swirling.

What would Chris think?

I wasn't sure. This whole thing was borne of his stupid agreement in the first place. If I hadn't won, Zane would have seen to it that I was the on my knees, and Chris wouldn't do a thing to stop it, at least if last time around was any indication.

Zane says I belong on my knees.

But Calvin thinks we all deserve to hold our heads up high, at least most of the time.

Game or no game, this is my life. It is my wheel to spin.

Isn't it?

"Do you want to?" Calvin asks.

I nod.

"Don't say anything," he says, smiling, as I buck upwards so he can pull my boxers down.

My dick flips up; I draw in sharply.

Calvin rubs my balls gently, then gulps. "Hell. I'm nervous," he whispers. He laughs, his face turning red. "Has anyone mentioned—you have a really big dick?"

I nod, with my mouth half open.

Calvin rubs the shaft of my dick slowly, and I writhe as a new sensation courses through me.

"You are a good guy, Travis," Calvin says, his voice seeming to fade.

He grips the base of my dick, pointing it at his face, and looks into my eyes again, his teeth snagging his bottom lip.

He flexes; his creamy skin trembling as he leans in, his tongue peeking out between his teeth and bottom lip. He buries his teeth under his lips and prods the shaft of my dick with his tongue tenderly. He licks slowly and repetitiously, each maneuver infused with a bit more confidence.

"Calvin," I whine. I've never felt anything like it. I don't know what to make of it.

He engulfs the head of my dick, letting it sit in his mouth for a moment before swirling his tongue around.

"Eek!" I whimper. I go red; for whatever reason, what he's doing is making my voice go higher.

He draws in, perhaps a little too quickly, and emits a slurping noise. He gags, sputters, and spits out my dick, a line of spittle connecting his lip to my dick for a moment.

"Don't try to push it," I say, panting. "Take your time."

Calvin guides my dick to his mouth again, slowly drawing it down his throat. This time, with it mostly buried inside him, he looks into my eyes, refusing to gag, as he goes through a slow swallowing motion.

My toes curl.

I run my hand through his golden hair, as a new temptation dances in my mind.

"Fuck, Calvin," I whine, slowly gyrating toward him. I'm not like Chris or Zane, biding my time. It's as though my deprived body is sending signals--like tasting sugar for the first time. I need more, and I need it now...

The door whines open.

I look up, past Calvin.

Zane twists a snake rake (a little lock pick) between his fingers.

He sneers at us.

"Shit!" I whisper.

Calvin spits out my dick again, coughing, his face turning a deep shade of red as he turns to the door. He avoids Zane's eyes.

"I know you two you wanted some privacy," Zane says. "Hey cocksucker," he adds, blowing Calvin a kiss, who clenches his fists. Zane sneers. "But—I don't really see why you deserve it, Calvin."

"G—get out of my room!" Calvin musters.

"By all means, keep sucking," Zane says, rolling his eyes.

Calvin hunches, petrified.

Zane trundles open the closet and digs through boxes.

"Stop," Calvin whispers.

Zane moves on to the space under the bed, approaching from the other side as Calvin, finally settling on something that catches his eye.

"I knew it. I KNEW IT! Recognize this, Travis?"

Calvin shudders.

Slowly, Zane pulls a teal jockstrap into the air.

I shake my head.

"Let me give you a hint." Zane pushes the jock strap into my face.

"You," I breathe.

Disgust etches across Zane's face. He throws the jockstrap at Calvin, who hangs his head.

Zane rifles through the box, picking up a clump of jockstraps, uncovering a few toys Calvin probably wouldn't want to show his father. "Do you think these were fucking cheap?" Zane says, throwing the jock-clump at Calvin. One clings to his head, another to his chest, and two more litter the floor around him. "WHAT THE FUCK? YOU'VE BEEN STEALING MY UNDERWEAR, you perverted faggot jocksniffer!" He circles the bed, prodding Calvin's chest with the dildo. "What? Did you fuck yourself on this while you sucked the sweat out of my jocks? What the hell is this?"

"Zane—" Calvin croaks, his voice cracking. A tear coils down his cheek.

"You did!" Zane says, still shaking with rage, but now with a hint of glee too. "You see, I had been wondering—a bunch of my jockstraps were missing, and Travis insisted it wasn't him—even when he had nothing left to lose...Holy fuck." He starts laughing openly. "You are an even bigger fag than he is! Not to mention a crazy fuckin' kleptomaniac. Why didn't you just tell me?"

Calvin chuckles heartily. "Like anyone should trust you. Unlike you, I don't have to act on every compulsion I get. You are a terrible person."

"And it makes you so HARD," Zane says, leering, dragging his foot against Calvin's crotch, smooshing it a bit. "I shoulda known. All guys pop a woody now and then, but yours came right and left. It must have been tough—losing to me over and over, wishing things would go a bit further..."

"I DON'T CARE!" Calvin said, finally finding the force in his voice. "I DON'T CARE IF YOU MAKE ME..." He trails off. "You are a terrible person. There's a difference between fantasy and real life."

"There doesn't have to be," Zane says. He sits down next to me on the bed—then shoves me toward the corner, taking my spot. He flexes his legs, kicking them out wide, making sure Calvin is positioned between them. Zane grabs the back of Calvin's head and makes him look up into his eyes. "The way I see it, you stole from me. That means I'm supposed to stand up for myself. Isn't that how things work?"

Calvin shakes his head, his blue eyes wide. "Travis," he mutters. "Help."

Zane stretches his arms, flexing, catching me looking. Then he grabs me by the back of the head and pulls me into his armpit. "Travis. Lick."

Slowly, I breathe in his scent again.

Memories flood over me.

The hotel room. The needle that pierced my ear. The razor that mowed my hair.

His room. The fang that enshrined my neck. The machine that marked my back.

Fuck.

I whimper and slowly lick his pit.

"Travis!" Calvin hisses.

Zane gropes my dick and bites my ear. "Rim his faggot ass."

I sink down to the floor, crawling behind Calvin and pulling down his Jackie Chan Boxers.

"Travis?" he says again, the confidence draining from his voice.

I worm between his creamy buttcheeks—and lap.

His subtle musk invades my mouth and nose.

"Fuck," Calvin mutters, shuddering. He falls forward, and I steal a glance over the small of his back. Zane pushes Calvin's face around in his junk. "You like smelling my jock, bitch? Then SMELL."

Calvin clenches his eyes shut; he shakes his head.

Zane drags Calvin's face around his jock-clad crotch.

"Don't you wanna get a chance with a fresh one?" Zane taunts. "I bet you'd have more fun chewing on a jockstrap with my big dong still inside it."

He whimpers; I prod his hole with my tongue again.

He gasps; Zane forces his open lips over the bulge.

"Make your dreams come true, faggot."

With his eyes still shut tightly, Calvin lolls his tongue out slowly, and prods the outline. He trembles from head to toe.

"Whip it out, bitch."

Calvin's eyes open and he snaps to life. "No." He pushes Zane away and worms out of my grasp. "NO!" He says louder, rising to his feet. He's gasping for breath; his hands are on his hair again, pulling on it scrappily. Another tear rolls down his face.

"No."

At this point, Calvin has a very prominent boner. Zane reaches for it, but Calvin swats his hand away.

"No."

Chris knocks on the door to get our attention, despite the fact that it is already open. "Isn't it about time for our match?"

"I said to give me time to figure something out," Zane spits, glaring at Chris.

"It seems to me you've had plenty of time," Chris says, crossing his arms. "Calvin said `no'. Not used to rejection, are we?"

Zane glowers at Chris.

I look at him as well, relief ebbing away at whatever Zane had done to me. Chris won't let us do something we regret. Part of me wants to crawl over and kiss his feet again, but I control myself. He still has to redeem himself for exacerbating this mess.

Zane smirks, looking back at Calvin. "So—your plan is to just—resist me indefinitely? Even though I just gave you a big, fat boner? Even though you cum yourself to sleep with me in your mind's eye?"

"Go fuck yourself," Calvin says.

So much for my supportive blow job.

I'm trembling just watching Chris and Zane go at it. Calvin can't hold still and watch, and instead paces throughout the kitchen, muttering to himself. He's still red in the face.

"C'mon Chris," Zane says, panting, raising his eyebrow. "I know you want to finish this fast."

My heart races. Chris better hurry up and get whatever stupid prize he wants from Zane. I just want to go home. I'm still mulling over the last thing Zane said to me, right before the match started.

That he knows all the secret passageways into my brain.

I just need to go home and shake him out of my thoughts.

I try to think about the cider shelves in Chris's basement.

Chris and Zane's arms collide, and I can't ignore my drumming heart, calling me back into the moment, into my treacherous maze of guesswork and fear.

Their biceps curl and flex. Then, they push each other away. Again their arms meet each other, this time at the shoulders, as they push and pull, vying for position. Chris snarls.

"C'mon stud," Zane says, his voice soft. "Show me what you got."

Chris lunges at Zane, who sidesteps. Chris's forearm comes down at Zane's chest. It's a questionable move. Zane wraps Chris up. Chris untangles himself; his arms are on Zane's arms, working their way down; he's got Zane's arms in his; he spins Zane around; Zane gains his footing and spins around Chris—

There is a loud rattle as Chris hits his head against the low-hanging chandelier.

"Not used to playing on this terrain, huh?" Zane says.

Their hands are still interlocked. Zane pulls Chris toward him, and in one sleek movement, leans forward, flexes, and pulls Chris over his shoulder.

Chris flops to his hands and knees. He staggers to his feet in an instant, but Zane drops to his arms and swings his legs out, bringing Chris to the floor again.

"Fuck," I whimper. That was not a wrestling move. It was a kick-boxing move.

I bite my lip.

Zane and Chris entangle in one another. Their arms are around each other; their legs are interwoven; they are rolling around the ground.

It won't be much longer.

I start to feel a building anger toward Chris. He was so sure he would win. Chris and I had been forming something meaningful these last few weeks, but it couldn't mean to him what it meant to me, or he wouldn't wager it.

It's too much to lose.

But he must not feel that way. He's never felt the same way about me as I feel about him.

And I can't take much more of it.

Chris's shoulders are inches from the ground.

It's hard to watch—he could lose any moment.

I hear Calvin again in my mind.

"No, no, no..."

Zane pins Chris to the ground, and I clench my eyes shut, the image seared in my mind.

"What did you just do?" Calvin asks.

Zane flexes, one arm cradling under Chris's neck, the other on his shoulder, with his fist pressed against the back of Chris's neck and head.

Chris pushes back, then crumples to the floor, his eyes closed.

"Sleeper hold," Zane says, rising up and pushing on Chris's face with his foot. "He'll be out for a minute or two."

Zane grabs his bag off the couch, opening it and pulling out some folded up material and some twine I left at his house.

"That's dangerous," Calvin says. "I'm not okay with this."

"Suck my nuts," Zane says, unfurling his hammock. He lays it out on the floor. A patchwork canopy encompasses a kind of bed, with two scale lines on opposite sides, for tying the hammock to its supports. Zane rolls Chris over one full revolution, until he's on his stomach with the hammock's canopy underneath him. He uses the twine to knot up Chris's wrists behind his back. Then, he grips the hammock's lines, roaring as he lifts the hammock into the air (with Chris entrapped inside it) before tying the lines to the chandelier.

Chris's body rocks back in forth, pulling the chandelier with him, still unconscious.

Zane steadies him, leaning in to peck him on the forehead.

Then he laughs. "Can you believe my luck? Travis, a faggot, Calvin a faggot, Chris, soon to be one..." His eyes shimmer maniacally. "God, I feel so—INVINCIBLE right now."

His cock curls up under his jockstrap, hardening and prodding out.

"Don't you still have to beat Travis?" Calvin asks.

"Oh right. I suppose there is that formality," Zane says. "Travis—get over here."

"Aren't we supposed to wait a few hours?"

"What the fuck do you think I'm going to do for a couple hours? Either get over here and wrestle me, or get over here and suck my balls."

Zane plucks a toy he had lifted from Calvin's box off the couch where he'd stashed it. It's an orange ball about the size of a mandarin with straps coming out both sides. Zane seems to know what it is for. He walks back to Chris, stuffing the ball in his mouth, and linking the straps around his head, gagging him.

Zane looks back at us and shrugs. "He's going to come about sooner or later. Don't want him alerting the neighborhood."

I make my way over the couch, trembling.

"So what is it, Travis? Care to save us the effort and sink to your knees now?"

Part of me hesitates. The part he invigorated when he breathed in my ear and force-fed me his pits.

I look up at Chris and steady myself.

"No, I want to wrestle."

Zane's lip curls. "You sure?" He raises a brow.

I nod.

Zane lunges at me. I think he is going for my shoulders, but he is feinting; when I move for his shoulders to establish parity, he twists and finds my back, pushing me forward. I trip over his outstretched legs and stumble to the floor.

"Again!" Zane says.

I rise to my feet. I rub my knees where they collided with the carpet. They burn a little. I turn to face Zane again. He moves toward me, adjusting his height, scoping out weakness. I try to adjust, to keep myself safe, but he finds an opening. He sinks to his hands and sweeps his legs under like he did to Chris before. He knocks my legs out from under me and I fall to my ass in a heap.

I scream out.

"I knew I would get you crying," Zane growls. He stands over me. He pushes me with his foot, rolling me over to my back. "Get up, faggot!" he screams. "Get up!"

I rise to my feet again.

He grabs my arms; I hold onto his; he spins us around; suddenly he stops. I stumble, growing dizzy. He pulls me toward him; reflexively, I pull away; he changes his motion suddenly; he is pushing; I stagger backward and hit my head against Chris's hanging body, crumpling, barely keeping my balance.

I put my hand to my head, but Zane is relentless; he grabs me around the waist and throws me to the floor.

"Get up faggot!" he shouts. "Fight!"

I stand up, and Zane pulls me backward into him. I feel his hard-on through his jock and his breath on my ear.

Zane trips me up and pushes me to the ground again.

"GET UP!"

I'm whimpering now as I rise; each time I get up, Zane slams me back to the ground; I'm in pain everywhere; I'm panicking as I fall on my ass again.

I hear a muffled moan from the ceiling.

Zane looms over me, pinching my biceps into my midriff, biding his time.

My vision is hazy, I'm seeing mist and shards, but then, in a crystal moment, I see past Zane, and right into Chris's eyes. He's hanging above me, staring down, his golden-brown eyes wide.

He tries to worm out of the hammock fruitlessly, bouncing around and making the hammock swing.

"Like a fly in a web," Zane muses, "Struggling as the spider twists it into oblivion."

My mind jumps back to the poster boards in the bio labs. Glistening pin-pierced exoskeletons. DNA models, hanging from the ceiling by threads.

Blood fractionation.

"Mrrrmph," Chris whimpers, the chandelier clanking as he violently shakes.

Zane laughs.

I twist onto my stomach, crawling away from Zane, sweat pouring down my brow...

He claps my mouth with one hand and the back of my hair with the other, pulling me towards him by the head.

"You stupid cunt-face. Don't you understand? I own you."

I can't breathe. I start writhing around, mirroring the image of Chris quavering above me.

Zane bites my ear before whispering, "You are my slave, Travis. Don't you see?"

My eyes widen as I mutter into his palm.

Let me breathe Zane.

"Lemebrza. Plea."

I hunch forward; the couch wobbles; Zane tosses me to the carpet.

"This isn't your fight, Calvin."

Calvin?

I'm stunned. I can barely move. I feel echoes of Zane's forces on my body, prickling me. I can hardly open my eyes, but I force myself to.

I steal a glance their way, my vision fogged over. Calvin invaded our fighting pit.

"This has gone on long enough," Calvin says.

My ragged breath smoothes over.

"Technically, I never pinned him," Zane says, shrugging. "It will go on till it's over."

"This is my house. I say this is OVER."

Zane grabs Calvin by the neck. "You wanted to fight me? You GOT IT." He tosses Calvin back, who flips over the couch and crashes into the stack of lamps and side tables, cutting a path through the clutter.

Zane digs through his bag again, grabbing the handcuffs. He catches Calvin by the wrist and cuffs him to the cabinet. Calvin hunches, dazed.

I wobble to my feet.

"Zane...please...you win."

Zane gut-punch at Chris's exposed stomach. Chris groans and stops bouncing around, swinging with leftover momentum. Zane smirks, circling Chris slowly. He snaps his focus back on me and grips my arms. He slams me up against the wall. "Really? I win? You are just going to give up like that?"

I swallow and nod.

"Please Zane...I give up."

"Why didn't you just give up in the first place?"

"I wanted to wrestle."

"Did you really think you could win?"

"I don't know," I whisper. Chris is swinging from the ceiling, pain in his eyes; Calvin's shoulder is bruised where it hit the coffee table, his eyes are closed as he leans against his shackles; my knees are trembling. "I give up, Zane."

"Remember your options?"

Slowly, I shrug off his grip and sink to my knees.

"I thought you wanted to wrestle?"

"I—want to suck your balls, Zane."

"With your...heroes...watching?"

I nod.

Zane grips me by the ears. The pressure stings. He hauls me forward, dragging my knees, before pulling my face down into the carpet again.

"But you chose to wrestle. I still have to pin you. Get up, faggot."

I roll over onto my side, tears streaming down my face. "Please," I croak. "Please—let me suck you, Zane."

"You've learned I like hearing you beg. That's good. But you can't sweet-talk your way out of this one."

"Please, Zane."

Zane kicks me in the back. Not as hard as he can, but hard enough that I know I can't lie there anymore.

Slowly, I shuffle to my feet.

"Pin me then," I whisper.

He knees me in the balls; I stagger; he drops me onto my stomach.

I slither away; my balls ache; I'm panting.

He grips me by the ankles.

I crane my neck toward him. "I'll suck you off, Zane. I'll be your slave. Please. End it."

He squeezes each leg hard, moving up my body. He pinches my thighs; my quads; my ass cheeks in his palms. He drums on my back and I collapse on my stomach.

"You pinned me," I murmur. "See?"

" Not for three seconds," he growls, lifting me up by the shoulders. "NOW GET UP."

I close my eyes and let my upper body droop in his hands.

He lets go of one shoulder and slaps the underside of my neck. "GET--THE FUCK—UP. NOW, YOU PUSSY PUNK BITCH."

I try to tap out.

He pinches my nipple and I squeak. "Get the fuck up." His knuckles dig into the soft part of my neck and I squirm around like a new swimmer stuck under the tide.

He stands up, holding me in tow by my neck.

He releases me; I strain to breathe; I can't fight anymore.

I squirm to get away.

"Escape, then, faggot!" Zane yells. He laughs as I struggle to run. Two steps and he has me by the shoulder-blade. He pulls me backward and slams me on my back. I squeal like an animal; my eyes are wide; I'm thrashing; Zane collapses on me; he pins my legs; he holds down my arms with one arm; with the other, he brings my face into his sweaty pit.

"You are my faggot," Zane growls.

I can't breathe; I'm drowning in Zane's pit.

I've been pinned here for more than three seconds—finally. He pulls my head away and I gasp for air.

"Say it," Zane says.

"I am your faggot," I whisper.

"Now prove it," Zane says.

He pushes my face into his crotch, wrapping his legs around my head and holding me in a vice-grip. Slowly, I slurp on the stretched fabric outline.

Zane pushes his jock strap down and his cock flips out, stabbing my lips. He pulls at my hair as he buries his cock in my throat.

"MY FAGGOT. And don't you ever forget it."

I suck ardently on his cock, staring up into his deep green eyes.

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