Taste of Power

Taste of Power by: Krazytop ---

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 are 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.

Pay the price of action

Or let time slip away

You can't foretell collateral

When you sculpt with clay

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 forty?"

"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.

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