“Go get us beer!” the boys shout.
They’re already drunk, but they want to be more drunk, and their whims are my commandments.
They sit by the TV. Some of them wear sweatpants. Some of them wear jeans. Some of them wear just briefs, in which case you can easily spot a cockhead poking out. It’s too stuffy and smoky in the room. No proper ventilation because that’s the house’s basement. You can hear the humming of the grindhouse underneath, and you can get slightly high breathing in the basement air. At least, grind has no smell you can perceive — only some animals can smell it — while the smell of booze, sweat, and the boys’ funky socks is stupefying. I feel like I’m drunk too, though I haven’t had one drop of alcohol in months. I must stay clean and sober.
I’m dying to have a bit of the boys’ attention, but they’re busy. They’re watching porn. They’re riveted to the screen where three brutal hunks are fucking the hell out of a petit young blonde in pink panties. I’m not an expert, but the blonde seems smoking hot to me because my boys are getting turned on looking at her. That’s why I’m getting turned on too, though the panties freak me out. As for her pussy, it looks really inviting. All wet, it’s a well–designed receptacle for the penis. Designed by mother nature. Designed to pleasure the penis. It’s more suitable for the penis than a faggot’s ass. It’s preferable. I know my boys are dying for this sweet, wet pussy. I know their cocks are dripping precum. The pussy is eager to have all of these cocks, and all of these cocks are eager to slide in. They could have a great, physiologically perfect gang bang. It seems that my boys are thinking about something like a gang bang too. One of them pushes his hand into his briefs and strokes his cock as his eyes are fixed on the screen with the pussy on it, the pussy that all of my boys want to get lost in for good. The girl squirts, and the boy exclaims, “Dope!” I don’t care about pussies. I’m a fucking homo. I’m watching the boys as they’re watching porn. The other boys pull down their sweatpants and jeans and briefs, and their beautiful young cocks spring free, emitting this thick, pungent smell that fills up the room and drives me crazy with lust.
By the way, the three hunks are hot too. You can catch a glimpse of their faces on the screen every once in a while. They’re not really handsome, but they don’t need to be handsome. They’re just masculine. Two of them are smooth as dolphins, but that’s okay. The third one has some body hair, fortunately. Their cocks are monstrous, and I can tell it’s not effortless for the blonde to look ecstatic while those cocks are penetrating all of her holes at once. She’s just doing her job, and I can tell she’s good at it. I was exactly like her in the beginning. Fake it until you make it. But I can also tell my butt is trained much better than her pussy. It’s trained with the cocks of my boys, the cocks of my boys’ boys, and the cocks of their boys’ boys, so I could accept the challenge and pleasure those hunks with more love and devotion than the blonde. It’s not my job, it’s just my lifestyle. I do it naturally. God bless my boys, for they’re perfectly aware of my talents and they prefer me over all blondes and brunettes they can possibly get. Not always, of course, but quite often. They say I’m worthy of all the whores in the neighborhood, and that’s the best praise for me.
I have to vent, or I’ll lose control. I’ll come to the boys crawling on my hands and knees. I’ll kiss their feet and beg them to let me suck cock. The boys will most likely kick the hell out of me if I dare bother them with this stupid faggot shit. My job is to do what they say, not to take initiative. I won’t suck cock now, and I won’t get gang–banged, so I have to get out of this basement where the boys’ smell is all over. I have to air out my stupid faggot brains.
“Go get us beer,” one of the boys says. He says it quietly so as not to disturb his buddies. “Go or I’ll fucking kill you,” he says and gives me a cheerful wink.
He’s drunk, and I better not mess with him, or he’s going to beat me up for real. He’s a hothead, but I’d love to lap at his juicy cockhead. I smile at my wit as I’m going upstairs.
I put on my hoody and check if I have enough money to buy some good beer and some good cigarettes for my boys. I can’t help spoiling them. I go out, stumbling like I’m drunk. It’s early October, and nights are already cold. Fresh air makes me feel better. Of course I drooled a shitload of sticky precum into my pants, but at least my cock has calmed down.
I walk the dark streets, heading to the night shop where I usually stock up. I live mostly at night, so it’s been quite a while since I last saw these streets in the light of day. We hardly have any electric illumination here, so when the sun goes down, this part of the city descends into darkness. But I don’t need illumination, for I know these streets so well. Every crack on the sidewalk, every corner, every building and what’s inside. This is my home. This darkness is my home. It’s never quiet. Something’s always going on.
I see three big thugs dragging some punk across the street. The thugs are high, and the punk’s pants are down. His pale little butt flashes in the dark like a dim torch, and I can actually see his cock. It’s rock–hard. And there’s actually a beer bottle sticking out of the punk’s ass.
“You fuckin’ prick, you fuckin’ faggot,” the thugs roar. “We’ll fuckin’ ruin your ass!”
The guy is petrified.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” he pleads, “just please don’t hurt my ass anymore!”
One of the thugs slaps him hard across the face, and the guy quits this chickenshit nonsense at once. He’s sobbing now, and I hope that’ll be a good lesson for him. Never oppose. Relax and enjoy. Let them have what they want, and when they come for more, strike them back insidiously. The world is ruled by faggots and whores, no matter if anyone’s aware of it or not. I bet the thugs will fuck all the shit out of the guy by morning and he’ll be begging to hurt his ass even more and breed him like a bitch. Problem is, they’ll have to obey, for they can’t control their lust, so he’ll be on top. He’s just too young and dumb to know how things really work.
I keep walking. I notice a group of three in the dark alley on my left. A thug is getting his cock sucked by two teenage pups. I don’t know who the pups are, and I don’t know how they got into trouble, but I know the thug. He’s neither a psycho nor a sadist, just intemperate, so it might get physical if things go wrong. His cock is gigantic, and he always demands that it’s deepthroated, not just sucked or played with. And it always takes him quite some time to cum. Satisfying his lust requires great skill and determination, but I guess those pups are just too young to be skillful and too inexperienced to be determined. One of them is gagging on the thug’s cock, releasing all mucus and saliva from his nasal passages and throat and slobbering the juicy mess all over the place, and the other is sucking the thug’s balls with so much care and devotion as if his life depends on it. Actually, both their lives depend on how hard they try because the thug’s armed with two guns, both to the pups’ heads, which, of course, makes the aspiring cocksuckers do their best. They both seem apt, but they have no right for a mistake. I hope I won’t hear any gunshots tonight, but I also know the thug won’t fuck around, so may god’s love be with those poor pups.
I keep walking. There’s another alley, where a dude is buying grind from a dealer. The boys have dealers everywhere, and grind is especially popular among dudes because, apart from the mind–blowing high and zero addiction, it jacks up their libido and potency. But you have to take it with alcohol. Booze doubles the effect because of this weird chemical reaction they know nothing about except the very fact it occurs when you drink. The more you drink, the longer grind stays in your system, and that’s another reason it’s so popular. Everyone here drinks a lot because there’s nothing else to do. Sex, drugs, alcohol, and some good old head smashing — that’s pretty much all the fun they can afford. And that’s pretty much all they want. The dude and the dealer are just shadows, nameless and faceless, but not anonymous. The boys know everything about clients and competitors. They’re the younger generation of criminals who want to take over this place and turn it into their criminal empire. The older generation, like my ex–owner Henry, isn’t that old to give way to the kids. I’ve seen a few thug wars in my life, and I know another one is going to start soon . . . I’m waiting for it.
Speaking of Henry, here’s his brothel. It’s a small unassuming building with a huge, multi–level dungeon underneath. You can buy anything at Henry’s. Any drinks, any drugs, any girls and boys of any age and type. You can buy one of my boys’ virgin ass here. It’s pricey, but the boy is a hereditary purebred thug captured accidentally in a string of tragic events during a random street fight with Henry’s dudes. Everyone knows thug asses are extra tight, so it’s a great pleasure for a man to open up a thug. But the more they fuck him, the lower is the price. Everyone knows, too, that a thug will rather die than let a cock penetrate his ass, for he’ll never be accepted by the gang again if his ass is no longer virgin. It’s a tragedy. A tragedy for no one but the thug in question. Henry will let him go as soon as the thug starts bringing less money than it takes to keep him, but the thug will rather stay in the brothel, at Henry’s mercy. Eventually, Henry will be so kind as to find a job for a strong young guy with thug skills, no options in life, and nowhere to go. This is how loyalty is instilled. This is how Henry’s business works.
Henry’s always been the biggest bastard here. He used to own me, and I’ll never wash away all the traces of his ownership. Everyone knows I was his boy — a boy, not just a faggot — and it almost feels like my biggest achievement. It’s a status that can’t be withdrawn. I see Henry across the street. He’s standing with a couple of buddies in front of his brothel, a cigarette in his mouth, a bottle of rum in his hand. I still remember his huge cock that gave me so much pain. I remember the ugly scar across his face and the other one across his chest, and I remember how I kissed his scars and every inch of his body. He was a soldier. He fought for our country and all of us. He tortured and executed our enemies with ineffable cruelty, and I admired him because of that. He glances at me across the street, and I lower my eyes instantly, for I’m a faggot and I’m not allowed to look Sir Henry in the face. I sigh with relief as I figure he’s not a Sir for me anymore, he’s just Henry. I can come closer and shake hands with him and ask him how it’s going. But every time I see him, I need to make myself remember he doesn’t own me anymore. It’s like I’m rediscovering my freedom because my first reaction is the fear that Sir Henry will smash his fist into my face and make me kiss the fist afterwards and say I’m sorry I misbehaved and didn’t pay my Master due respect. Henry loves to work with his hands. He trained me with his cock, but mostly with his hands, so now I’m instinctively anticipating his huge fist to emerge from the dark and fly toward my face . . .
I keep walking. I know Henry is grinning right now with his diabolical grin. I know him so well. That’s why he always valued me as his boy. I didn’t submit for food or shelter. I didn’t submit out of despair. I submitted because I wanted this man to own me. I wanted him to kick and fuck all the shit out of me. He didn’t need to show off or assert his authority. He just needed a boy who could give himself away. A boy capable of ultimate submission. A boy who’d extol his Master’s vices.
“You’re my masterpiece,” he used to say when he was drunk.
The ouroboros tattoo he’s gotten inked on my left wing muscle — exactly where my heart is — meant I was special. It meant we’d always be connected as a Master and his boy. Why would he let me go, then? Too much attachment isn’t good, he used to say. True submission comes from the freedom of will, he taught me. He let me go so I could come back one day and find my place at his feet . . .
I keep walking. There are boys from the other gang hanging out by the river. Retro cars, loud music, their faggots and whores giggling and dancing and kissing in the moonlight, all wearing these purple neon halos on their heads. If you want to leave, come to California and be a freak. We’re all freaks, but we’re not in California. It’s cold here, so they’re setting up a fire. I’m setting up a fire too — a big one! Their boss has a crush on me. He can have any boy or girl, or all of them at once, but it’s me that he wants because he’s so vain. I’m a forbidden fruit, an impossible ideal, a wet dream he’s doomed to have every time he falls asleep. There are tacit rules nobody dares break so far — you shall not, for example, covet your neighbor’s faggots and whores — but I’m setting up a fire. I’ll be dancing to the loud music when there’s nobody left by the river, when they all vanish and the sun reflects in my eyes.
The boss is actually very attractive. His bronze skin and intense gaze and deep voice make me hot for him. They say he has the biggest cock in the neighborhood, which, of course, isn’t true, for the biggest cock here is Henry’s. The boss, however, has still been very well gifted by mother nature, and I really wish I could feel him inside my body, embrace his girth, feel his hardness, his warmth, his pulse. I wish he could give me his sperm, fill me up with it, breed me like he breeds them in his harem, and he knows it, though we’ve never talked about it. We’ve never talked much in the first place. We shouldn’t.
He comes closer.
“How you doin’?” he asks.
I give him a demure smile.
“Better than anyone else,” I say.
It’s dangerous, but he’s attracted to the fire I’m setting up. It lights up the darkness of his days and nights. It lights up everything inside and around him. It’s been like this since we first met at Henry’s eight months ago. He thinks I’m better than anyone else, and he’s right. I’m better at sucking cock and fucking in the ass and telling lies and submitting to raw power — of which he has none, by the way — but I’m also better at setting up fires, big ones, and I sometimes think he really wants to die in a fire. He will, and it’s going to be beautiful. It’s going to be epic, for he’s the gun I hold in my hand. He’ll shoot the moment I pull the trigger, and he won’t miss. Fast and ghastly and unforgiving . . .
“You wanna join us?”
I give him another smile.
“No,” I say softly.
I’m just a cute little liar. He knows it. He knows I’d love to hang out with his gang because they’re funnier and more laid–back than my boys. A man shouldn’t ask a faggot, but I’m not just a faggot. He can’t even get angry at me, because I know what I’m doing. It’s always maybe but never certainly.
This time, however, he feels a bit safer talking to me. He knows what’s going to happen tomorrow. He doesn’t, really — nobody does — but that’s okay. He’s in a good mood tonight because he thinks he knows what’s going to happen tomorrow, so he puts his halo on my head and takes a step back to see how I look, and I’m standing in front of him with the shining halo on my head and a shy smile on my face, and I can’t look sexier.
“Aren’t ya an angel?” he asks.
By the look in my eyes, he knows I know what’s going to happen too. Let him think what he wants. Let him think he’s going to fuck an angel. After all, he deserves to be allowed a bit of hope, doesn’t he?
“Maybe,” I reply.
I take off the halo and hand it to him.
“Not yet,” I say.
His eyes spark, and not only because of the halo reflecting in his black pupils. Now he’s certain we share a secret, and it makes the slow passing of time even slower but so much more thrilling. He puts his halo back on his head, and his handsome face suddenly looks angular and creepy in the purple light. What he doesn’t know is, it won’t be his moment of triumph, because he’s the gun I hold in my hand. He’ll shoot and I’ll slip away.
“See you,” I say.
I’ve always been kind of untouchable. My men were well–respected, so their girls and boys could enjoy their authority. There’s nothing I should fear on these streets, in this part of the city. I belong here, and no one will hurt me if I don’t stick my nose where I’m not supposed to. I don’t, because I know where I belong. But the others don’t. They’re so small in what they want. They always do some shit, and they don’t know anything. They don’t know who’s the real master here. The real master is the boy with an ouroboros for a heart. But they don’t know. They’re not supposed to know.
Henry, my dear Henry, that sick sadist, will take over this place again and rule it until he dies, and my boys . . . Well, I’ll miss their beautiful cocks and sweet spunk, but most of them will see their last sunrise this morning — if they bother to get out of their basement in the first place. I bet they don’t, for they have no clue that their shithead cocksucker is going to sabotage their business meeting with the boys of the other gang by simply not showing up there. I’m supposed to be served as a special treat. Sir Henry’s ex–concubine. Not a whore. Not a faggot. A true slave. I’m supposed to be their pipe of peace because the gangs are rivals and seek partnership, but there’ll be no peace and no partnership because I decided so. The boys will have nothing to talk about. They’ll have nothing to share. The boss of the other gang will die in the fire of his rage and take many, many others with him because he won’t have me, and that’s a big deal. I was supposed to be a kind of present, a precious gift from one leader to the other, and that’s the only reason he agreed to negotiate anything at all. But he won’t have me. Slaves change owners, but I never did — and I never will. I’ll just slip away, and he’ll think he’s been tricked into something he’s not smart enough to comprehend. He’ll think he was made a fool of and laughed at. He’ll shoot once, and then twice, and then three times, and before the others grab their guns, a big fire will open its mouth to devour their poor souls.
I keep walking. I reach the night shop and roam around the aisles. There are males of so many different kinds here, and all of them are looking at me, and what they think is obvious. Some of them wish they were me. Some of them wish they could fuck me. Some of them wish they could kill me. I don’t look at them. It’s not arrogance. I’m just not interested in whatever they might offer, and they’ll never have the guts to offer something worthy of my interest. So I grab some pizza, a lot of beer, and two packs of cigarettes per boy. I get in line, not looking at anyone.
I just walk away the next evening — before the boys tell me to get ready for the big party. I don’t need to go anywhere special to get home. This whole neighborhood is my home. The boys are moving heaven and earth to find me when they realize something’s gone terribly wrong. Their bloodhounds are sniffing all over the place. Everything here smells of grind. Money, fists, guns, and cockheads. Everything except me. I’m clean of any substances. I’m pretty much sterile. I sense a rush of fear, then panic, then despair. The boys are shouting at each other as they lose all hope. Poor little bastards. They thought I was loyal. They used me as their fuck–boy, but once they trusted me and asked for more, I betrayed them. There’s only one man I’m loyal to, so they’ll never find me. I check the news in the morning. A shooting took place at a local gang’s headquarters at night. Many have died, and those who survived will go to jail now that the cops have raided a huge grindhouse where grind was produced 24/7. Two great gangs of the outskirts vanished at once. Dope!
“Hail to Sir Henry,” I tell Sir Henry when I meet him at his brothel a few months later.
He’s the king now. He owns this place again. And he still owns me. It’s not that I’m a male version of Mata Hari. It’s just my lifestyle.
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