Taste of Power

Taste of Power by: Krazytop ---

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. Hey-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 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 unveil 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. ELABORATE."

"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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