Taste of Power

Taste of Power by: Krazytop ---

Part IX

"Did you bring the jockstrap I gave you?" Zane asks.

I nod slowly.

"Really?" Zane says. He drops down and lands in front of me. He still has a handful of my hair. He tilts my head up at him. "Put it on."

I turn toward my bag and bend over, searching through it. My towel slips off and my naked ass points up at Zane.

"You are such a fucking tease."

"Tease?" I say groggily. I remember how the other day he wanted to fuck me. I bite my lip and find the red jock strap.

"Smell it."

I bring it to my nose and I close my eyes. My ass flexes as I breathe in his scent. Zane slaps my ass, then holds onto it with one hand.

"Fuck," I whisper.

I crumple onto the ground to escape his grip. I roll over and pull the jockstrap on.

"Lie down on the bed."

I spread out on my back, biting my tongue.

Zane rummages through his bag. Then, he turns back to me with a couple glimmering rings swinging in his grip.

"Handcuffs?"

"Funny story," Zane says. "When I was in juvy, there was this guard that took a liking to me. I could tell because he didn't get me into trouble when he caught me with contraband beef jerky. Soon, I got him sneaking things in for me. At bargain prices, I might add. I tried to keep it a secret—if people ratted him out, I'd lose my hand-to-hand man. We both kept getting bolder and bolder, and at night, right around lights out, he liked to rap his truncheon against my cell."

I try to get under the covers, but Zane tosses them off me onto the floor.

"One night the guard won't stop rapping on my cell. He's pretty quiet, but I can't quite fall asleep, so I start to get kinda mad. Eventually, I reach out and grab him, pulling him in till his back is against the bars, and talk some serious trash into his ear—and he just lets me do it. That's when I know for sure he is a hardcore faggot. I drape my arms around him, hold him tight, and tell him it will be okay. It becomes our ritual. But one night, it felt different. Smoother. That's when I realized--he had pushed his pants down to his knees! He exposed his faggot ass--for me. He wanted it—SO--BAD. So I wrapped my arms around him--and fucked him right through the bars."

I grunt, and Zane chuckles.

"So our ritual changes, and each night, he tries to be as quiet as possible. I hold him tightly against the bars and fuck him raw. He just can't get enough of my cock—he's reckless with lust. He should have spaced it out every few nights; he should have been careful, but he just didn't have the heart. Sometimes I would steal his handcuffs and lock his hands up behind the bars. He liked that—most of the time. But one night, the light flips back on—and the Warden catches him boned up with his pants down. Stupid fag guard can't even get away because I locked him up. I scramble to unlock him, but I don't want the warden to see I stole his cuffs, so I stash them with the keys in the secret fold inside the mattress. The Warden gets so busy berating him, he didn't even notice." Zane swings the handcuffs in his hands. "Still got `em."

"Is that story real?"

"What did I tell you about rude questions?"

"You think all questions are rude questions. I suppose you never thought to escape with the keys?"

"I got put in a higher security room for a while. By the time I wheedled my way back to that room, my sentence was almost up anyway. I let myself out at night a few times, to steal food and play a few...pranks. But it would be stupid to try to escape. I was only there a few months. I would have got caught, and the punishment for trying to escape is more than what I was there for in the first place."

He clicks the cuffs around one of my hands, then threads them behind the headboard before locking up the other hand.

I test my mobility. I can wiggle my legs still, but that's mostly it. My arms are locked over my head.

"I like it when you get all tied up," Zane says. He grabs my balls through the fabric and I make a chirping noise before turning red. I try to quiet down, but he twists my balls in his hand. "You like wearing my jockstrap, don't you? You like how the fabric that was so close to my cock—gathering the crack and crotch sweat—my cum—my piss—is now so close to yours. You like feeling close to that power. You like having that power envelope you—trap you."

I nod, my mouth falling half-open.

He presses his biceps against my nose, flexing and dragging it until I'm close to his armpit.

He rubs some fresh sweat into me, before pulling his arm away.

"You also like wearing my jockstrap because you get to dress-up like me—your new idol—and it connects us."

"A little bit," I whimper, looking at his jockstrap and then at mine.

The handcuffs pinch my wrists and I grunt. He strokes my hair, clearing my forehead.

"Was that guard—before, during, or after Leroy?" I ask softly, looking up at Zane.

"Before."

"What happened next?"

"I was put in higher security for a while. After a week or two of `good behavior' they crammed me into my old cell with a new cellmate. The real reason for the move wasn't good behavior at all, you know me—but they had maxed out and were cutting corners to fit everyone. Just wanted to sugar-coat it. So, I had to make a new friend, and he was named Leroy. Tall, lanky guy. Mostly a push-over. At first he was just my punk bitch. But I can tell the difference between complacency and eagerness, and over time, he made the switch."

Just hearing Zane talk got my body on edge, although I didn't understand why. "How could you tell—the difference?" I ask, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

Zane glowers at me.

"He was so—into it. Moreso than myself. Tight. Affectionate. Desperate. He started saying he loved me after a while. Started saying nice things to me, and about me to others. Bringing out a bit of hope inside me. That's a bit embarrassing, isn't it? But, he made me wonder... about the nature of belief. It stopped feeling like a prison, at least in flashes. Having Leroy made me feel a different kind of freedom. It didn't matter that we lived in the shittiest cesspool on Earth. In sappy little moments, he made me feel—at home."

"What's wrong with that?" I ask, biting my lip.

Zane grimaces, looking at the wall behind me. "I fucked up again. Got caught outside of my cell when I wasn't supposed to be. Got put back in solitary. While I was gone, a couple of closet fags knew that Leroy was my bitch and figured he was up for grabs. Found him when they were supposed to be mopping, and shoved him into the closet. Leroy refused them. Said he was in love with me. Can you believe that? I don't even know if love is a real thing—if it's distinct from obsession--and yet, here Leroy was, sure that he loved me. I hardly deserved love, in any case. He was just a punk to me, after all."

"It's a good thing he loved you," I say, looking into Zane's eyes. He glares at me, the emotion draining from his eyes, bit by bit.

"They beat him to death. Said they didn't mean to. Added a bit to each of their sentences."

"Oh Zane," I say, my lip trembling. God, I cry easy. I try not to, but I can feel the pool of water surfacing.

"It's just a reminder of how stupid everything is," Zane says, his voice growing icy. "People live their lives one diversion after another, a perpetual distraction from where their life is headed. You can look at clouds and go on vacation to the Bahamas and buy a rock from the moon, but everyone is going to the same damn place in the end. Six feet UNDER the ground."

I force a laugh. "So--get cremated."

He grabs my head, slams it down, and holds it into the mattress.

Then, he pauses, biting his lips and clenching his eyes shut. Finally, he wills himself to continue.

"People try to get away from it—by projecting shadows of everyone everywhere, and hoping some slinking soul shards will glom on to places they don't belong. Lest anyone and everyone be consumed by nothingness."

Zane furrows his eyebrow, twisting his lips. His eyes seem to darken and he slaps me across the face. "You are a shadow of him. Do you understand? You will never be what he was to me. "

He pauses, then collapses on me. He is shaking. His muscles and sweat have grown cold. We shiver into each other.

Zane sniffs.

"Zane," I whisper. "Please don't cry, Zane."

"Shut your faggot mouth! I don't cry. I'm not like you."

"Zane," I whisper.

He crawls up me now, his fabric-clad cock dragging against my sticky skin. Eventually he drags his pouch over my mouth and nose—then my eyes.

Suddenly, without warning, he twists his body around--and lowers his ass onto my face.

"I'll give your dirty faggot mouth something to open for," he says.

I'm squirming; I can't breathe; my nose is deep in his ass; I can't think over the musk; I open my mouth.

"Lick it, faggot!"

I don't even think to disobey.

I lap slowly at his crack, drawing it out.

"Clean my hole."

I drag my tongue in circles around his asshole before burying it inside. The musky taste overpowers me and I start to moan. Zane moves back and forth on my face and I growl.

With my face smothered under his ass, he leans down, grips my thighs, and folds them up. He pulls my ass cheeks to the sides, and then swirls his finger around the cusp of my hole.

I moan into his ass, and he chuckles.

"Faggots are hollow people. Not quite like men—after all, a fag's junk is essentially ornamental in nature." His elbow pins my rock-hard dick through the jock, then crushes my balls. "Not quite like women either—women are purposeful. They bear young; they get that sex is manipulative. But faggots like you are void. Your mind goes blank; your goals break down under duress; you don't actively EXIST—you linger."

He presses his finger against the ring of my ass, and I expect my body to resist—but it doesn't.

It opens for him.

He pushes his finger deep inside, and I whimper.

"You don't quite have a woman's pussy, and you don't quite have a man's mind. You just have this faggot VACUUM that needs to be filled. And it sucks."

I slowly swirl my tongue around his hole. A dime-sized something breaks free and falls past my lips. It's dirty—but I can't fight.

I gulp.

"You are my faggot," Zane whispers.

I nod into his ass, swirling my tongue.

Eventually, he pulls off me. He undoes the handcuffs, flips me onto my stomach, and locks them again.

Then, he starts to massage my back with his hands.

"Tell me what you are," he growls.

"I'm a faggot, Zane. I linger--for you."

He sinks his teeth into my neck and I call out.

"Shut up," Zane says, clapping my mouth shut.

He smacks his lips against my skin, brushing me with his tongue, and nibbling some more.

He's moving down.

When he reaches the arch of my back, I let out the most pathetic, high-pitched moan. I want to stay quiet, but I can't.

Zane's hands are on me.

He kneads my ass in slow, warm circles, each one stretching my ass cheeks wider apart. His lips are at the apex of one of my ass cheeks. I feel his tongue slice at me, surrounded by wet sloppy lips.

My breathing grows uneven. I flex my ass. It raises slightly off the bed.

Zane holds my ass cheeks in each hand, pulling them as far apart as they go.

"You need to learn to be active when you do things. You have to put your soul into it. Let me show you."

I feel the tip of Zane's tongue knick the ring of my asshole and I gasp.

"Oh, god!" I whimper.

"You like that?" Zane says. He licks me slowly.

"Hell," I say softly.

He laps at my hole and my ass flexes uselessly into his hands. He does it again, harder, and I shiver, writhing. Zane kneads me till I soften under him. He keeps dragging his wet, bulging tongue across my hole and my wrists cut against the cuffs as I squirm. Soon my ass starts opening and closing for him. Zane's tongue darts inside.

My hands clench into fists; my ass tightens around the tongue needling inside me.

Zane laughs against my ass.

I'm bucking, but that only forces Zane's tongue deeper inside me. He holds me open so he can stick his tongue fully within me. His lips close around my hole and he rolls his tongue around.

"FUCK!" I whimper.

He chuckles, slapping my ass. Zane plunges his tongue in and out faster now, opening my hole and making me weak.

"God, Zane," I say.

Slowly, his tongue draws out of me.

He licks the curve of my ass, then kisses up my back. Through his jockstrap, I can feel the heat dragging up my leg, before cleaving my ass cheeks. He breathes into my ear. "What do you think, Travis? I know what it's like to feel trapped. I know what it means to be free."

I'm not sure where he hides in the catacombs of my mind, but he jumps out at the strangest of times. He's my dream, and my imagination doesn't like to be contained.

"Chris," I say softly. "I want my first—to be Chris."

Zane slaps my ass so hard I gasp.

"To hell with Chris."

I struggle against the cuffs. The shackles for bad boys. I crane my neck; Zane's green eyes glint like daggers; I see him in a different light.

"You are a beast," I say softly. "I want to help you—but I—"

Zane grabs my neck with both hands.

"I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP! I just need your ass, YOU RETARD." His breathing is shallow. He releases me, and his voice gets chilly again. "Do you think the people our culture locks up—are the exact people who deserve it most? Are you so ignorant? How do you THINK I got like this? People claiming to `help' me; what a sham! You put tame animals in cages with beasts for long enough, and they become wild animals. That's all I am now—A WILD ANIMAL. NO ONE HELPS ME. NO MORE LIES."

Zane takes off his earring and stabs the pillowcase with it, bolting it in place.

He unlocks the handcuffs, tosses them to the side of the bed, and flips off the lights. I can't think of anything to say. I'd offer to suck him off, but somehow, it doesn't seem like that would help right now.

I roll onto my side, trying to process what is happening. A part of me will always love Chris. But another part of me, the one that is screaming inside my head, is wondering how I am letting this beast, whose capacity for emotion is more complex than I ever dreamed, and who is intelligent, thoughtful, and unique, and whose life had such a terrible beauty, and who I increasingly want to comfort—how am I letting him feel rejected and unloved? What is wrong with me?

I grimace--I purse my lips—I feel a cold sweat.

Zane crawls into bed and wraps his arms around me.

"Let's sleep, Travis," he whispers in my ear.

I exhale loudly but say nothing.

My eyes become accustomed to the darkness. Everything is gray or black, but I can make out shapes—shadows dancing against the wall as the blinds vacillate in the draft. Zane's arms tighten around me. His abdominals and pectorals toughen, flexing into my back. Heat radiates off of him and surrounds me; I am in a bubble of his musk; it's hypnotizing.

There is a knock on the door.

Zane's hands move up my body and one covers my mouth. His breath is on my ear. "Ignore him. Please. Just let him go this time."

My eyes open wide but I stay quiet.

Things start to get hazy, my eyes droop...

I am--back in my bed at home. All the rooms are in the wrong places, and I can't seem to sort out anything completely. I have all the stuff that I thought the others had taken: my wallet, my keys, and my mind. Even the mokimon cards that I had lost or destroyed.

I'm too fluid to be curious.

Chris is there, smiling playfully—he keeps kissing me over and over.

"I couldn't love you more," he whispers.

I hold him tight and his hands move to my back, and then my ass. We look for my room, briefly lost; everything is distorted and inverted; no longer their usual cubes, but warped carousels instead. We walk past the mangled, melted, metal horses with fire-red eyes and toward the other edge of the platform. We find the silver bed, fall into it, and then watch as the room starts to spin.

The melted horses are angry strands, glowering at us as they ride around and around.

Chris finds my ass and enters me, biting my neck.

I soften—and let him take me.

The room starts to spin faster; the horses are blurry; Chris fucks me harder; the light goes off; everything is invisible; then everything surfaces to gray or black.

Chris starts to twist—not his posture, but his soul—his face warps.

Zane.

"It's me you love now, faggot," he growls.

"Zane," I whimper.

I wake up in a pool of sweat. Zane's arms are draped around me; his body is warm and flexing; my ass is tightening around the bulge in Zane's jockstrap.

One of Zane's hands is holding my stomach, the other is covering my mouth.

I kiss it softly. I flex everywhere, then diminish.

"Leroy," Zane mutters.

I roll over so Zane and I are face to face, and run my hand through his Mohawk softly.

I lean in—and make my lips touch his. I leverage his mouth open and suck on his lips.

Zane's green dagger eyes bolt open. His tongue darts into my mouth and sweeps out the insides. He shoves me away. I groan, my mouth hanging open, and he brushes my lips with his thumb.

"Did I say you could kiss me, faggot?" Zane asks. "I don't want your mouth tonight. I want your ass." He leans in and breathes in my ear. "And when you do get to kiss me, it won't be on the lips."

"You say I don't live actively enough," I say, gazing at him. I reach down and grip his cock through the fabric. I lick my top lip, looking directly into Zane's eyes.

"Tease," he mutters, batting my hand away.

"I don't want to be a tease anymore," I whisper.

There is a buzzing silence. Eventually I break it.

"I think there is a reason I call you `sir' without even thinking about it, Zane. A reason I am drawn to you, a reason my mind goes blank. I'm ready Zane. Ready to admit what I want."

"Go ahead then."

"I want you to fuck me, Zane," I say, chills rolling down my spine.

"There's more, faggot," Zane says. He tucks his hand behind his head, and he smirks. "Look into yourself. Your...soul. There's more."

"I—I want you to be my master," I whisper, looking down at the sheets.

Zane flashes a twisted half-smile in the dark.

"I don't know, faggot. It doesn't sound like you want it that bad."

"Zane," I whimper. I lean in toward his lips, but he tilts away and pushes me down to his armpit instead. I suck on it softly. "Zane--please," I plead.

"Please what?" Zane asks, rolling a hand over my shoulder.

"Please fuck me," I say. "Please—make me yours."

Zane rubs my face around in his pit and imbibes my face with his sweat. I lap at the thin hairs, losing my breath. "Please," I whimper, before he shoves me in deeper. I moan. "Please Zane. Please make me your punk bitch."

He pushes me down his body; I kiss his pectorals--his nipples--his abdominals; my tongue glides over his shadow-flecked tattoos. My lips find his jock strap and I suck free the musky flavor. I strain on the fabric prison till its captive stretches, rolls toward the edges, and threatens to break out.

"Please," I whisper. I reach for his cock and Zane slaps my face.

"Please," I say again, my tongue darting out.

He slaps me each time I ask; but I just keep asking, begging, pleading. My face stings; I'm tearing up again; I stay resolute.

"Please Zane. I—I'll be your slave."

Zane snarls and grabs me by the hair, pulling me up so we are face to face again. He glares at me.

"Open up faggot," he growls.

I drop my jaw slowly.

The moonlight splinters in his eyes, and then--he spits into my mouth.

I swallow.

Zane flips on the bedside lamp and it bathes us in orange light. He reaches for his bag and pours a hodgepodge of junk onto the bedside table. Then, he picks out his scruffy wife beater tank top, balls it up, and shoves it between my lips.

I gaze into his twinkling green eyes.

He sneers, grabs me, and flips me onto my stomach.

My hole, still moist from his ministrations and a new wave of sweat that collected, clamps at the air—once—twice—three times. I feel Zane's hands on my ass, pulling the cheeks wide apart from one another.

I compulsively chew on the wife beater, tasting the grunge.

Something hard drags up the skin of my ass.

"Since you are new at this, your soul is gonna try to protect its home from invasion. So you gotta get your body to trust me. Open the gate and keep it open. Make me feel at home."

The head pushes on my hole.

"Ding-dong," he breathes.

My heart pounds.

"Open up and let me in," he says, nibbling on my neck.

I bite down on the wife beater and close my eyes. I try to open for him. The gap widens, bit by bit, and then, suddenly, the head of his cock jumps inside.

"Fff," I hiss.

"Good boy," Zane whispers, sucking on my ear.

Whenever I stretch my quadriceps before wrestling, I don't have the best balance. Coach makes us stand on one foot, hugging the other foot backwards against our butts. My body shakes in place as Coach counts up. Sometimes I'd hop a little so I don't fall over. One time, I pulled the damn thing while I was stretching it wrong.

That's how I feel now.

"Stop squirming," Zane breathes.

Coach let me lie down on the mat and stretch there from then on.

"Let it happen."

I bite down and try to focus on the moment.

Zane's corkscrew cock twists deeper and deeper inside me. My tunnel tightens its vice-grip, and Zane eggs me on unhelpfully.

"C'mon, cuntface."

He waits a minute; I push out and absorb a little more; this happens twice over; then, I can't control my body to do it again.

"You don't get off the hook that easy."

He pushes through the resistance and buries his cock deep inside.

"FNNG!" I scream, spitting the wife beater out.

A dull pain rockets through me; for a moment, my veins seem to congeal, then the sensation fades.

My voice cracks. "FUCK!"

Zane covers my mouth with his palm.

"You are mine, faggot. All mine."

A tear rolls down my cheek.

I have been trained in flexibility, but this is something else.

I yelp into his hand for a while, but as time passes, and Zane waits on me, I find myself kissing it softly.

"My personal faggot," Zane whispers, biting my ear.

I suck on Zane's palm as he pulls out slowly.

"I own your holes now, Travis. I never want to hear a speck of resistance ever again. You are my PUNK BITCH. I fill you; I complete you; you NEED me; you CRAVE me; you WORSHIP me."

He brings his palm to his armpit, coats it in sweat, and returns it to my face—covering my mouth. I breathe it in and suck it down.

Zane burrows his fat cock into me again and I squeal.

"You revere my body and everything that comes out of it."

I suck down more of his sweat, closing my eyes.

"Fuck yeah, faggot," he growls.

He pulls my ass wide with both hands and tunnels his cock inside to the root. I feel his big balls against me. He lets go of my ass, wraps his arms around me, and bites my ear again.

The ragged wife beater is resting on the pillow. I lean in and nibble on it.

He rises and falls. The curvature of his fat cock locks into the falcate of my ass; we are bound to each other.

He is inside of me.

Our souls shuffle like a deck of cards.

Zane overwhelms me as he digs deeper and deeper inside of me. I feel as though there is something precious he is distilling from within me, pressuring into existence and then mining right out.

Everything is blurry—blacks and greys. My eyes keep opening and closing; a red tinge lingers at the edges of my vision.

I feel a little dizzy, but I clamp down and force it away.

Zane moans as my hole tightens around him; my ass and its esteemed guest play off each other, taking turns flexing, tightening, and distending. He roams my back with his hands. His tongue crawls into my ear and fills it up before he closes his lips around the lobe.

"Oh god," I whimper.

"You like that, don't you?" Zane asks.

"Unh," I mutter.

His fingers tunnel under my body and pinch my nipples.

I yelp. I push my ass out reflexively and he slams it back into the bed with vigor.

He humps me like an animal.

"Say you are my faggot. My PUSSY PUNK BITCH."

"I'm your faggot," I whisper. "Your—your pussy punk bitch."

Zane winds up my head until my neck hurts, then smothers it with his moist armpit.

I breathe it in and lap it up.

Zane twist me and feeds me his other pit.

Then, Zane shoves my face into his wife beater again.

"Good boy," Zane whispers, finding my ear.

I bite down on the cloth as he digs deeper inside of me.

Zane slows down. His arms make wider circles on my shoulders—then my back—then my ass. I evaporate, it seems. Floating sweat, waiting to rain. Zane sculpts me; I'm back in Ceramics class, for a second; I'm alive; I'm high in the air. Then I hear laughter echo, as though from the depths of a cave. Zane mines me out, staking his claim on a shard of the universe, and my mind sinks back to the catacombs below.

He encircles me with his arms again, squeezing tight, as he shovels inside me again.

"Zane—" I whimper.

"Yeah?" he says, kissing my ear again.

"Zane—I might be falling for you."

Zane picks up speed.

Zane's laughter and snarls blend together as he pulls my ass in two directions with his palms. He quarries deep inside now. The treasure trail—the thin hair between Zane's belly button and cock-- needles my ass; sensation ripples across my skin. It approaches the tunnel—to the treasures inside me. He carves into my yawning ass.

Hoofprints of a beast sink into the ground, but no animal's indentation is as deep as the excavations sculpted by human hands.

My dream comes back to me in a flash.

Carved horses, melted bronze, twisted faces.

Zane.

"Oh, god," I whisper.

"Worship me, faggot," Zane growls.

I bite down on the wife beater again as he plunders my hole.

His abs crack against the hill of my ass and I moan, utterly broken.

My ass stops tightening; it stops forcing his cock out; it stops resisting.

It softens and opens and hangs weakly in the air.

"Fuck yeah!" Zane growls. "FUCK YEAH! Your ass is MINE!"

He slaps it. Now that it opens for him, he can bury his cock even deeper than he could before. His cock is thick—it strains me—a tear rolls down my cheek, but I ignore it. Pain doesn't make sense anymore.

What was once my body is now his hollow.

"I own you, faggot," Zane whispers in my ear.

I whimper, close my eyes, and bite down.

Zane sucks on my earlobe. "I'm going to pierce your ear," he growls.

"What?" I whimper, swiveling my neck to look at him. "Oh—Okay."

He grabs a glimmering orange device off the nightstand. It's a lighter.

He flicks it on.

Then he brings a needle to the flame.

The light in his eyes flickers just beyond.

The tip of needle grows red-hot.

"As you were," Zane says, biting his lip.

I twist back, clamping my teeth down on the fabric, bracing myself.

He grabs a cork from the nightstand and holds it against my ear.

Then--he stabs my lobe with the needle.

I howl, writhing, my ass twitching, opening and closing; fire, pain, and light flashes; Zane holds me in place, skewering me with his thick cock, pinning me with his full body. He covers my mouth again.

He pulls the needle out and tosses it onto the nightstand. Then, he undoes his earring from the pillow and brands my punctured ear.

"You are mine."

Zane loses it, hammering into me with reckless disregard. Boisterous claps echo about; his thrusts sting; my master is deeply immersed in my ass—and he likes it.

He's inside me. Inside my body; inside my mind. The divisions between us break down.

My mind falters, relinquishing ownership of my body—and Zane gladly takes it, pounding out what's left of me.

"You are my PUSSY PUNK BITCH."

"Oh god," I whimper.

"Fuck!" Zane growls. "Fuck yeah."

I graze my ear with my hand. I think about what I will look like tomorrow with Zane's mark bolted on my body. I'm definitely not supposed to wear an earring during a match. Maybe I can conceal it with the ear guard...

"I've branded you, faggot," Zane whispers in my ear. "Say it."

My thoughts fade; my priorities shuffle.

"You've branded me," I whisper.

"Fucking right," Zane said, slapping my ass again. "I own you and your faggot holes and don't you fucking forget it. ADMIT IT!"

"You own me, Zane."

He gnaws on my neck and I can't fight it anymore.

"Fuck," I whimper. "FUCK! I--I'm cumming!"

Zane holds me down by my hair. His bulging cock stretches me out from within and anchors me in place.

My ass clenches around it over and over; I stain the jockstrap with bolt after bolt of my faggot cum; I moan into fabric; Zane wobbles the back of my head around in his palm. He groans as my ass milks his cock, burying his shaft all the way inside me. I feel him pulsing—scattering traces of himself deep within, over and over, making me warm at my core.

"I love you," I whisper.

A quiet minute passes, time for my mind to catch my breathing and my heart.

Then, Zane pulls his cock out of my ass—and in that moment I feel he has taken something precious.

I whimper, lost in emptiness.

"Clean your ear," Zane whispers. "Salt water." He nods toward the nightstand.

I gingerly grab the bag of salt off the nightstand, and stumble to the bathroom. I grip my knees, hunching forward, barely able to stand. I wash the tadpole-like strand of blood out of it, dabbing my ear with the washcloth, staring at my reflection.

I don't look quite like myself. It's not just the jewelry.

It's my eyes.

I can't bring myself to look into them anymore.

When I return, Zane has fallen back asleep. I crawl up against him, nuzzling into him, and drape his arm around me.

I roll my eyes—Coach actually thought this was a good idea.

I lay my head on Zane's chest.

Then, I twist back into my dreams.

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