Part XXXIV
"There's a Marmander next to you."
"What do you mean?" Chris asks, looking both ways with his brow furrowed.
"He's sitting right between us," I say. "Look." I tilt the screen to Chris.
The seat we share hurtles upward, curving to its peak.
"See? It's right in-between us," I say.
Like a mirror, the device collects our image and sends it back. But this mirror is special. It sees beyond what we can see. It is a lens into the things just outside our perception, lurking, waiting for their moment to strike.
"What?" Chris asks in mock anguish. "That flaming little hitchhiker!"
We reach the peak of the Ferris wheel; the sprawling park stretches ahead; Lake Erie glints at us, fading into mist before I can make out the horizon.
"What did you say the name of that app was?" Chris asks.
"Mokimon Go. It's the next big thing."
"Doubtful," Chris mutters.
I clutch my phone to my chest as my stomach does a summersault.
Swing, swing, downward toward the ground; pulled, pulled, backwards.
"What do we do with a marauding Marmander, anyway?" Chris asks.
"Well," I say, finding my breath, "We catch him. We throw mokiballs at him over and over--"
"Trying to beat him into submission?"
"More or less. Eventually Marmander will give up and get trapped."
"Inside that little ball? That doesn't sound a little cruel?"
I click my tongue. "He gets out when he battles."
"So you enslave him for future cockfights?"
"Well...when you word it like that..."
"Justice served," Chris says. "He didn't pay for a park ticket. How do you throw a mokiball?"
"Put your finger on the screen and swipe," I say.
"Like this?" Chris says, pushing his thumb across the screen, sending the mokiball flying toward the Marmander.
Marmander seems to mock us, dancing clumsily on the safety bar, only visible through my phone's special eye.
"What?!" Chris growls. "Marmander POPPED right out! Did you see that?"
"It's okay, throw another one."
"Won't you run out of mokiballs?"
"There are mokistops that gives more of them," I say. "Pretty sure there's one over by Witches' Wheel..."
We reach the top of the Ferris Wheel again.
"Alright," Chris says, shrugging, swiping again, taking it seriously enough to switch to his pointer finger.
"Does that cloud of smoke mean we got him?"
"Um. It means he got away."
"Well, screw that," Chris says, laughing.
"Try, try again."
The Ferris Wheel slows to a stop.
"Did you catch your favorite yet?" Chris asks.
"I wanna get an Obo. But there were more of them back home I think, for some reason this place is full of stupid rat and pigeon mokimon."
The wheels jerks forward, only to stop again.
"Because it's a theme park?"
"I don't know. I swear if I see one more Smelarat or Pidgeepoo, I'm quitting the game."
People disembark the wheel directly below us, stranding us up high.
"The way this ride unboards is kind of impractical," Chris says.
"It just gives me a chance to catch another mokimon. Look—there's one, next to us again."
"Which one is that?"
"It's Pidgeepoo."
"Guess you have to quit the game," Chris says.
The wheel jerks; I shake away a bit of nausea.
"And wait idly to get off the Ferris Wheel like the olden days?" I toss a mokiball. It recoils from Pidgeepoo's passing wind attack.
"What did people do with boring time before cell phones?" Chris asks.
"Crochet hats, twiddle their thumbs, bounce stuff...I guess? Everyone used to play that sport--baseball I think--"
"Baseball is still around. They just put screens everywhere in the stadium to indulge people's technology addiction."
"But...if you are at the game, why do you need a big screen to also look at the game?"
"I don't know. The screens are big. They really suck you in."
"But..it doesn't matter how big the screen is. If you are further away from it because you are in the stands, it just cancels out and looks no bigger than a phone that's close to you. Anyway, no screen could be bigger than your ENTIRE FIELD OF VISION, which you have in the first place."
"Good point," Chris says, yanking my phone out of my hand.
"Chris," I say, leaning toward him and reaching for it.
He holds it out of my reach. "Why get lost in there? When there is so much around you to get lost in?"
I look into his amber eyes; sunlight glances off of them in a little sparkle glint.
"You really want me to get lost in you...right now?"
"Why not?"
"What if I want to kiss you?"
"Then the desire will build and build till we get home."
"That was going to happen no matter what."
Chris leans close to me till his face is inches from mine. He runs his hand through my hair. "Good," he whispers.
By the time we reach the car, the sun has long since burned away the morning's sheen of sunblock, before making a bit of headway into my skin.
I don't feel much like talking, and Chris understands, not saying a word as he turns the key and pulls out of the lot.
So instead I drift far away, piercing right through my thoughts and straight into a dream.
Zane shows up so frequently here that I evolved to face him. To be aware of which world I am in. To sort out which truths live in which.
Even if I sometimes wonder...what that really means.
I can force shapes onto the ghosts that creep into my dreams.
Calvin. Last time I saw him, his head was buzzed, and he wore the shark-tooth necklace.
Which means...he gets to be the hero that keeps Zane's lust at bay—absorbing his infinite power.
Fucked and fucked and fucked into oblivion.
I never did learn how the group saw fit to deal with Zane. As far as I can tell, they simply couldn't put together anything better than nothing—I'm sure they knew better than to count on me in that regard--so they settled on driving a silent wedge between us. Maybe Brett and Calvin found a way to keep Zane grounded. Maybe not.
It would be a shame if they made the wrong call, wouldn't it?
"How long are you holding my phone hostage?" I ask drearily. Chris pulls me out of the car.
"I like you better this way," Chris says. He opens the door to the cellar, and I troop behind him. Once I'm on the wooden stairs, I swing the door shut, the latch falling into place of its own accord.
"This is like that time you stole my keys. You remember I chose to keep my phone that day, right? It's like--a little extension of me."
"What if I just...toss it down the stairs?" Chris says, gesturing out.
"No! Please, Chris."
"Or...what if I see a really scary mokimon and I'm so afraid the phone flies out of my hand? Like that one. Oooh. A creepy Boobat!"
"Ug. Don't waste mokiballs on that one either."
"Why not?" Chris says.
Chris plops down on the couch, and I sit next to him, leaning into his shoulder, watching him toss mokiballs at the flittering, seizing Boobat.
"I love you Chris," I say softly.
Chris plays with my hair, and I peer into his eyes.
"I'd do anything for someone I love," I whisper. "You know that, right?"
"I know. It kind of grosses me out sometimes, remember?"
"But—you don't really mind, do you?"
"Check under the couch to find out."
I look deeper into Chris's eyes, but there are no hints there. I slide off the couch, sinking to my hands and knees, and gaze into the shadows under the couch. There's a wrapped package.
I pull it out and start to rise, but Chris pushes me back down with his foot.
"No need to get up. Unwrap it."
I reach for the package, but Chris corrects me again.
"With your teeth."
I sink my teeth into the wrapping paper, jerking my head around.
Confetti fuzzes my vision, and then a moment later, I see what I unveiled.
It's a red leather collar, with a chain metal leash attached.
"Want me to put it on you?" Chris asks.
It's time to take control of my dreams, isn't it?
"I know what you want. And what you need. And I can give it to you."
That's what Zane said. The day he explained what it meant for me to let go.
"You need to hear me tell you that it's okay to give in, Travis. It's okay to be a faggot." He bites my neck, his breath fire on my ear. "It's okay to be my slave."
With my mouth open and askew, I nod.
I lean down and bite the collar, holding it in my mouth as crawl around. I pause between Chris's legs, tilting my head up.
Chris reaches down and clenches my hair. "This isn't a game anymore, Travis. If you wear this collar, it's real. You won't be your own animal anymore. You will be mine."
I nuzzle into Master's crotch, pulling against the strain of his grip, nudging the collar around.
"Jesus...I get it. You are eager."
Master takes the collar out of my mouth, and I look up at him, my tongue drooping. Then he closes the collar around my neck, tightening it, latching it into place.
"I'm gonna catch this Boobat," Master says, raising his eyebrows. "You understand what you are getting yourself into?"
I lick the inside of Chris's jeans, making my way down his leg, before gnawing on his sock.
"Puppy wants my socks and shoes off?"
I look up at Chris, nodding.
"You can do it, puppy," Chris says, bringing his feet slightly off the ground and kicking them out. "But keep your paws to yourself."
He engrosses himself in Mokimon while I try to take his shoes off with my mouth. I bite down just above the laces where the shoe's tongue pokes out. Unlike the wrapping paper, no amount of jerking my head causes his shoe to budge.
"Damn it," Chris says, almost kicking me as he shifts. "I shoulda had it, but the mokiball broke again."
I crawl between his legs, trying to get at the shoe from behind. I bite on the heel this time, forcing my head downward as hard as I can.
The shoe slides off, but I can't stop the momentum in time. I smack my head against the shoe and, with a pang, feel the bite of the concrete against my nose.
"Got it!" Chris says, swinging his feet back and forth again.
I repeat the task slowly on the other shoe, trying to be gentle enough not to hit my head.
"Good boy," Chris says, finally acknowledging me by stroking my hair. "Bring me the shoe."
I bite down on his shoe again, crawling back between Chris's legs and craning my head, his shoe drooping out of my mouth.
Chris holds onto my head, pushing the shoe against my face, smothering my nose and mouth.
"Puppy likes the smell of Master's feet?"
I nod, my irises rising.
"Puppy wants to worship Master?"
I growl.
"Why sniff that foot sweat when you can lick it straight from the source?"
I look up at Master, my eyes wide.
"Bring me my socks, puppy."
I sink down again, nibbling the sock where it meets his ankle, catching it in my teeth, and wrenching my head, tugging it off. I repeat the process on the other side, chewing on the sock as I show it off to Master. He reaches for it; then, in a moment of pure impulse, I turn my head away.
"Give me the sock, puppy. Don't you understand?"
He reaches closer and I twist further. I start to crawl away.
"What the hell? Bad dog!" Chris wrenches the leash, and I slam to the side, choking on my collar. He grips the sock, and I bite down, growling. "Let go, puppy! You are going to rip holes in it!"
"RRrrrRR!"
Chris pulls on the sock; I clamp down, tugging back.
Chris lashes his hand about, sending my head careening back and forth.
Sighing, Chris changes tack. He reaches down and grips my balls through my jeans, his knuckles glancing my cage; he tightens his hold until my mouth gapes open, the sock falling out.
"Have I got your attention?" Chris asks, his eyes twinkling, that new hint of darkness in them.
I nod, my mouth still open.
Chris pushes my face down into his foot. "C'mon already."
I droop my tongue out, slowly licking from toe to ankle and back again. A string of drool runs down the side of his foot, and I mop it up with my lower lip.
"Oh. The phone tracker says that Obo is nearby." Chris jerks the leash, and I stick near his heel as he wanders around, looking for the mokimon with my phone. He pauses to recalibrate every now and then, and when he does, I plant my face in his feet and roll my tongue between his toes.
"Not over here...Nope, not by the cider shelves."
Chris's feet start to taste a bit dusty.
"Could it be..." Chris walks over to the nearest door, tugging me along.
He pushes the door open and I follow him into the wrestling room on my hands and knees, crawling off the cement and onto the mat.
Chris stands over me, swiping at my phone; I bend down, kissing his feet.
"Yes!"
I look up, and Chris sneers down.
"Look, bitch! I caught the Obo."
Chris tilts the phone screen toward me, showing me his prize, and I nuzzle into his leg.
Chris scans the room. "Wrestle me."
I look up at him, curious.
"I know; I know, we already finished the tournament. But you never REALLY wrestled me, not since Christmas. You were always paired off with Calvin and Zane, and when we wrestled in bed—it wasn't exactly full-throttle."
I get up on my hind legs and lick Chris's zipper.
"You don't want a chance to prove you are my equal?"
I shake my head, chewing on the outline of his cock.
"Get up, faggot."
I rise, feeling incredibly foolish, standing across from him.
"Wrestle me."
I strike my pose across from him, my heart racing.
He wastes no time jostling for position, baring his arms, faking jabs, taking his read on me.
Then he lunges.
He's fast as lightning and strong as a mountain. He's methodical. Bit by bit, my defenses are transformed into weaknesses and turned against me. A hint of restraint seeps into his dominance; he doesn't leave even a trace of an opening.
If he has a flaw, I don't know it.
Where's a chandelier, when you need it?
He's behind me now, forcing me forward to my hands and knees. He reaches one arm around, as though in embrace, and the other arm under, squeezing my balls again.
Oh God. He taught me how to fight this, didn't he? All I remember is that when he gets like this, nothing seems to stop him.
Chris kicks out his legs, sweeping out a pitter-pattering circle, twisting me awkwardly, till my stomach collapses forward with a thump.
He presses my face sideways into the mat before I can process what happened; he pulls tight on the leash.
"You lose," Chris says.
I push my ass up, looking into his eyes.
"Yeah, I'd bet you'd like that," Chris says, palming my ass over my jeans.
I tried to get him to fuck me on many occasions over the last few weeks, but he stayed true to his ultimatum: I would learn how to suck his cock balls-deep without gagging or going crazy, and until then, he'd withhold that particular pleasure from me.
I got pretty close. I tried my hardest.
But Zane's dominion proved difficult to shake.
He had planted so many notions that demanded to be thought. A piece of me would always understand him, love him, crave him. The piece of me that WAS him.
And I think--I just need to admit all that.
To admit that it isn't gratitude I feel for Calvin, or even an echo of lust. It's jealousy--that he took from me the horror inside that I love.
It tears me up inside. And that's what sadomasochism is, really. Twisting one state of mind into opposing branches, and then watching with fascination as one burns.
"Want to give it a try?" Chris asks.
All resolutions are tragic to at least one of the branches.
Maybe I can take occasional pleasure in that.
I nod at Chris.
He slides upward, looming over me, his crotch just over my eyes. The zipper of his unbuttoned jeans glints; his silk boxers peek out from under them.
I turn toward him, nibbling the zipper, pulling it all the way down. I bite the waistband of his underwear and pull it down bit by bit. Once the head of his cock pokes out, I lunge for it, clamping down my lips in absolute surrender.
Supple warmth rolls past my lips and into my mouth.
I flex as much as I can, willing myself not to gag as Chris's body buries my face, pinning me down with his hard cock.
Bit by bit, his cock slides further down my throat. I arch my back, resisting the urge to gag; I fight to stay in the dark.
Then, astonishingly, I feel his balls resting on my chin. I slurp his cock, rubbing my nose back and forth into his abdominals.
"Looks like the curse is broken."
He waits with his cock fully down my throat, whiling away time, reveling in his victory.
I tap the mat.
"Are you trying to tap out?" Chris says.
I tap the mat again.
"But I thought sucking cock was your token of submission?"
I trill the mat with my fingers, my eyes bulging.
"You sure you are ready to give in?"
I whimper, sucking as hard as I can, gurgling and swallowing back.
Chris pulls out, chuckling, and I cough up spit, gasping.
Without missing a beat, he pins me facedown on the mat, reaching under me to unbutton my jeans. Then he tugs them off, causing me to lose my balance. They bunch up around my ankles.
I feel the cool air on my ass as I push it up again. It's framed by the red jockstrap, which serves to distend the hills of my ass further toward my Master.
Chris palms my ass again and I whine.
"You miss the feeling?"
I nod, my mouth hanging open.
Chris pulls my ass cheeks apart, moving down, blowing on my hole.
I groan.
"I'm sorry I had to deprive you for so long," Chris says. "But otherwise, you wouldn't have been quite as motivated. And—we ought to put certain things behind us."
I feel Chris's tongue on my hole and I almost pass out.
I whimper. Chris grabs my wrists, tying them together with the leash. The chain tightens, making the collar grip my throat, forcing me to tilt my head back.
Satisfied with one last tongue-swirl, Chris migrates up my body, stopping to tug the collar once.
Chris's cock prods my hole and I push my ass up again, my hole blossoming open of its own volition and clamping down on the head.
I bite down on the wrestling mat; the weeks off left me with a tighter ass than before.
Is it going to be like this? As soon as one hole is trained, Chris has to re-train the other?
No. No—it isn't.
People talk of double-edged swords, but I'm more of a double-edged cunt. There's no reason I can't excel at being what I am.
Chris closes his lips around my ear before pushing his cock all the way up my ass.
"You like being my bitch? My slave?"
I nod, my mouth hanging open.
"I'm going to fuck you like I should have fucked you the day I learned you were a faggot."
As Chris opens up the cycle of thrusting in and out, I let myself feel at home.
Sure, there is a part of me that enjoys the fight, the wrestling for status, the endless tug-of-war.
There is a part of me that thinks I can't be okay with things that are so fucked up.
But I'M fucked up.
And I need to be okay—with myself.
So I settle for an intermission, a parlay, a break.
And in that space, there's room to set aside ideals and accept a comically refreshing dose of reality.
A ritual of what is...A moment to indulge in the truth of the situation, to let it congeal into something familiar, to process and acculturate and memorize. There is something reassuring about the ritual, because there is something reassuring about connection.
It's as Zane said. I don't exactly like people, but I like being alone even less.
Chris hastens his pace, his musculature slapping against my raised ass harder with every thrust.
I'm left to revisit the question Zane said could never be visited, the discussion that could never take place. Is it bad to be a faggot?
If sex endows me with a different state of mind, one where ideals seem to be rigid, overbearing, manipulative parasites, and that state of mind tore down the propriety Chris and I once shared, then is it not an intrinsically destructive proposition?
In the back of my mind, I hear Zane laughing. I try to shut him out. I can't let Chris know I hear Zane; he'll punish me.
Chris bites just over my collar; I moan, and flex my ass around his cock.
When conservatives like Cynthia speak of gay marriage tearing up the fabric of society, liberals scoff. What is the fabric of society, and what makes it so fragile?
But--they aren't completely wrong, are they...
Things have changed, things are changing, and things will keep changing.
When will it end?
It's not going to end.
We'll tear it.
We have to. Because it's not perfect. And our forefathers, the imperfect slave-owners and tax evaders they were, at least had the good sense to understand that the drive to make things --at least--different--would never leave us.
So we'll scrap the parts that aren't working: shred them up, split a line right down the fabric of society if we have to.
Inside the gash, there will be nothing. But inside that nothing, we'll make something. We will explore and color it in. Like a scientist. Like an artist. Like a child. And when we understand it, we'll seal it with a ritual that makes it as wholesome as we can.
Then we will tear it again, just further, like a muscle being worked.
It will be almost as beautiful as it is weird.
Is it good to be a faggot?
It had better be. And if it isn't, then maybe it's time to change what's good.
No need for all these different states of mind.
I am of one mind.
I am a faggot; I might as well belong; and you'll just have to be paradokey with that.
"You alright there, puppy?" Chris asks.
I turn my head toward him, panting, my tongue drooping out.
"Give me kisses," Chris says, holding his face just over mine.
I stick my tongue out, curl it slightly, and lap at his lips.
He pouts, opening his mouth, pushing his tongue against mine. I suck on it as he wallops my ass, each thrust harder than the last. He pounds me into shape like a sculptor working in clay.
The dots are connected, the needlework sewn, the ingredients mixed. Coin, lion, dog, cundango, faggot, slave.
Re-rip the fabric of society, to make a bit of empty space, and inside that empty space, guide in something new.
In the end, it will be less a fabric than a quilt, less vocational than it is a kind of art.
But hey—who doesn't appreciate a masterpiece?
I moan as I cum, my dick stretching against its cage. My ass clamps down on Chris's big cock, milking it in natural worship.
"Fuck, faggot," Chris growls, flexing his arms around me. "Fu—uck."
I almost black out as Chris breaks me, stretching moments into eternity.
His cock expands—impossibly big in my tight tunnel—and then, I feel it pulsing.
Darkness swamps me.
Slowly, a smile creeps across my face.
There's no need to fight what I am.
Giving up is the best thing that ever happened to me.
"Wait here," Chris says, as though I could summon the energy to do otherwise. He undoes my collar and takes it with him.
I lie flat on my stomach, my fucked hole refusing to stay closed.
Chris returns a minute later with a board game tucked under his arm.
"What is that?" I ask softly.
"The Mokimon board game. Your Mokimon app made me think of it. Want to play a round? We can see if it holds up well enough to tempt Calvin and Zane with when they come over for the end of year pizza party. Maybe if we find a way to involve beer..."
"Zane?"
I can't seem to catch my breath.
"My dad's going to set up the pool," Chris says, seeming not to hear me. "Maybe we can finally get back the key to your chastity cage."
"But Zane? Coming here? On purpose?"
"We need to make amends if we want the team to be any good next year."
"I'm not going to be on the team, Chris. I'm a faggot."
"You'll be on the team if I say you'll be on the team."
I crane my neck up. "Please. Don't leave me alone with Zane. Don't ever."
We stare into each other's eyes. Nothing fills the next few minutes, naught but brown and amber flecks, set to the beat of my heart.
Chris strokes my hair. "How about we play the game?"
I sigh, setting up the board and handing him the dice. He rolls, then moves his Vapidash token three spaces forward, before hoisting the dice back.
I crawl forward, burying my head in Chris's chest, sniffing the sweat there.
"Why take the risk?" I whisper.
"We can't be in the basement forever," Chris says.
I sigh, half broken and half mended, as Chris wraps his arm around me. He strokes my hair while his rising pectorals buoy my face.
A few months ago, I might have argued. Or at least paused, to sink into my thoughts.
But I am well beyond that now, aren't I?
"Make your move."
I steal a glance into Master's eyes, where hints of light swim and splinter. I shy away, nuzzling into the warmth of his arm, teasing out the bulging, firm contours with my lips.
"Go on."
I fumble for the dice, trapping them in my palm, before tossing them high into the air.
Schemer slides inside a split second, within that little pocket of the unknown.
I bury my face in Chris's armpit--content in his embrace--waiting for the dice to fall.
THE END ...for now, anyway. :)
Thanks for being a loyal reader to the finish. Feel free to stay in touch. I sometimes go through spells of silence, but I always appreciate the messages people send. I'm sure I'll get a few notes letting me know how I can keep this story going...I always do. But I also have some new projects that have been clawing at me, so I suppose we'll see how the writer's bug bites me soon enough.
Email: krazytop@gmail.com
Tumblr: krazytop.tumblr.com
Always happy to hear sentiments from readers, whatever they may be.