Purposeful and Unfree

Chapter 4

Claimed by Sovereign

On the chat app, Ernie and Nels exchange messages, May 11th.

The_Editor: Good dirty stuff again. Nice build-up. Without a doubt, there is commercial potential here.

The_Editor: However… I told you before, and I tell you again: I need an angle. Politics, royalty, priests, military. You see where I’m getting at. Horny gay guys blowing off steam isn’t enough anymore for a high click-through rate. Doctor Matthew is the best angle so far. Maybe that Buck guy is ex-military with a dishonourable discharge after spanking one recruit too many?

The_Editor: Help me out here. Where is this going? I’m not paying you to have backroom butt fun. This has to connect to the fancy people of the real world.

Nels_NYcontrib: First of all you are barely paying me. Second I keep telling you, that Doctor Matthew and Buck are not the story. They are gatekeepers, like legit knights. They guard something to follow. They are solid guys. Real men.

Nels_NYcontrib: The event tonight will be the auction or some stuff like that. I am 110% sure, maybe more.

The_Editor: Do not get snarky. Many out there would love your privileged job. That’s the problem with young people today, no grit, no commitment, not willing to take it up the ass, figuratively speaking, for a great story, for truth. 

The_Editor: We founded this media company to help young creative Americans enter the job market. Our corporate tagline is, as you know: ‘the critical fresh pair of eyes on the unjust world that never rests, hard at work’.

The_Editor: On your second point, I know what you think awaits, and I’ve been patiently waiting. So far I only see two men satisfying their lusts for tight holes and perky bodies. I grant you, they are suspicious and there is a story here. But I need details, motives, background, and connections to society’s upper crust, like Congressman Hammering. Would love a twist where he enters in a velvet robe and begin licking some buttholes. It is your top priority to get that. 

Nels_NYcontrib: sure

The_Editor: Sure what? 

Nels_NYcontrib: sure I find out more details because I never rest, or whatevs.

The_Editor: Don’t get moody. Critical feedback from a more experienced journalist, editor and mentor is the bread and butter of your career. I am helping you.

The_Editor: Well? You are not going to respond?

Nels_NYcontrib: thx…

The_Editor: On that point, we need to talk about style again. At times you get way too poetical. 

The_Editor: When you introduce Doctor Matthew and there is talk about sartorial choice and a creaking armchair, just write: ‘The Doctor, friend of the mayor, was also there. He drooled at the thought of fisting some ass, the creep.’

The_Editor: Bring it down to the base level where these sexual drives and practices come from.

Nels_NYcontrib: Please, please, please!!! Do not destroy my art. The atmosphere is not filthy. They are at some other level. They are not of this world. The poetic style is integral to reaching the fundamentals of the acts. Form is content. Words have weight. Flesh is man. Gravity is sexual.

Nels_NYcontrib: Why. Are. You. Not. Listening!!! Please, please, pleeeeeeeeeese!

The_Editor: I leave it in (for now) if it gets you all butthurt. But I will have our intern, Charlie, put more time and effort into this. He has not found Doctor Matthew yet, but he better will. He willingly works all of this weekend. He is seriously committed to his mission. A bit like you once were. You will share the byline with him. 

The_Editor: If Charlie does not find the Doctor, though, then I am worried we will have to talk about your future at the magazine. Maybe Charlie is the new you? 

The_Editor: I need that content. When they pick you up for ‘auction’, you better get full names, political affiliations and connections. I expect a draft soon.

---

Draft authored by Nels on May 12th, recovered from digital device, NYPD evidence archive number B-55-2x54-4

All the great journalists who have immersed themselves in a place and time to report on events and chronicle the persons involved have at some moment had to ask themselves: have I gotten too close? Truman Capote with his study of the murderer Perry Smith. George Orwell and the Catalonian Anarchists. They are but two of my august predecessors faced with said question. My time has come to ask myself the same. Have I lost perspective? Or have I gained it? 

By now, dear reader, you know of my penchant for writing in the nude—something more honest about that. As I haltingly assemble these words, on a very early morning in May, no single piece of cotton, spandex or polyester touches my body. The fabric that soothes my skin, my well-exercised, some might say sore, derriere to be precise, is the soft touch of velvet in the form of a luxurious cushion of a timeless majestic design. The air that otherwise envelopes my body is comfortably warm and lightly scented by old wood and delicate rose. 

It will hardly shock the reader when I note that I am not inside my decaying rental unit stacked with the cheapest coarsest low thread-count blankets. Rather, the place I am a part of is a distant mansion, palace, castle, temple, palazzo — I am too modern to know the proper nomenclature — somewhere in a dark unfamiliar countryside. This space is the space of the man that rules over what is and should be. He is the Sovereign.

They asked me to go to the BART and bring no more than some basic personal artifacts as luggage. By “they” I mean Buck and Doctor Matthew. And by “personal artifacts” I mean a minimum of items that exercise and please my mind, such as the small device I am presently typing on. Clothes, I was told, were not required. So very unsurprising. 

My two brothers, Ken and Victor, were fellow travellers on this journey. We huddled together, hearts beating an excited beat. We felt a warm sense of reassurance, though, thanks to being united on the precarious path we moved. First step: yet another blindfolded trip to yet another space deprived of windows or a view of the outside world. Routine or ritual, whatever it was, we sensed no reason to worry as the hours passed in the vehicle. 

The next step involved the mysterious man from before — Lord Hippo, that is. In the distant room, he emerged and began a careful inspection of our naked bodies. His touch was clumsy. His exhalations malodours. He told me to bend over. I felt his fat finger move over and around my butt hole.

“This here. See. Remove, clean and oil in. Perfectly smooth and receptive. We’re not running a boy brothel for sailors in Brest, we have different standards,” he spoke to a man in his entourage. The grooming of my ass that I had performed earlier in the day had been imperfect by Lord Hippo’s exacting standards. Ken’s body required a bit of work as well, and another man in the entourage was surgically directing tools and ointments of sorts to the badminton butt of my brother. 

Victor had performed his routine better it seemed. Lord Hippo massaged and squeezed Victor’s wealth of bouncy butt cheeks for his pleasure. Pressing and pinching Victor’s tender boy parts induced a shiny coating of drool on Lord Hippo’s lips. There was something mushy and threatening about it. He was not like Buck and Doctor Matthew.

Speaking of which, the two lion brothers were not in sight. I knew though they were somewhere close. I felt so. And that reassured me. A harmony of sorts requires a balance of notes, instruments and direction. Without them, there was no harmony. So we felt. 

I am jumping ahead, however. My naked brothers and I in the mysterious antechamber of Lord Hippo were still ignorant — virgins, in the figurative sense, to the destinations ahead.

Lord Hippo finally approved the state of my body with a light, but painful, flick of his finger on my scrotum. I winced, as did Ken and Victor.

The doors that opened next to us three were large and heavy oak doors — a gate more like it. Passing through these massive wooden creations of men’s labour, I suspect, also marked a passing into a new realm of thought, laws and power — a gate to another world for our minds as well as our bodies. A darkness and a chill were around us as if even the air of our past existence had to be stripped from us and left behind. The only sound in our ears was the nervous breathing of our fellow brothers and the rhythmic sounds of our hearts pumping a potent brew of hormones and energy through our veins to enliven every cell in our bodies. It goes without saying: we were erect, our nipples hard, and our buttocks unwaveringly firm. 

Another gate opened onto an illuminated stage. On it stood Lord Hippo. He pointed his arms at us and exclaimed, like an overly dramatic public crier in a bustling town square:

“Behold, the majesty of nature. Gifts of beauty. Pert and pretty. Puckish and playful. Yet pliable when subject to manly powers. Blossoming bodacious boys, too great for the gangrenous grind beyond, too loveable to leave adrift, removed from robust command, sentenced to sadness since not subject to sensations of superior manhood.”

We walked out on the stage. The lights were intense, so whatever or whoever was watching the stage and our nudity on it was hidden from our view. A faint smell of premium male cologne was in the air as was faint smoke of wood and tobacco.

“Carriers of exceptional qualities and forms, worthy champions of your world of power. Set your force of unconcealment upon them, spur these wondrous creatures, and bring forth weight and heft their forms beckon. The cocks has crowed. The clamps have clamped.”

Lord Hippo spoke similar words of poetry and drama as he caressed our bodies, and turned us around to show our bodies from various angles. He was excited. This was his moment. It was beautiful in a strange kind of way, had it not been for his drool. A deformed man cursed to live in a clumsy body, but within, a mind of extraordinary sensitivity for refined aesthetic quality. 

He turned me around bringing my butt into the focus of the light, and I felt his massaging hands squeeze and fondle my buttocks.

“Delightful. Playful. Many mouthfuls. And between them, you ponder?” spoke Lord Hippo, and pried his index finger between my buttocks, and moved it up and down like an octopus flexing his tentacles. “There was a time when wars were started over the privilege to feel what I feel, to claim it all what my touch merely brushes the surface of. Oh Lord, your gifts are great.”

He performed similar routines on Ken and Victor, rubbing and stroking, and alluding poetically to times and places where firm bodies of men were the most potent of forces. After that, he nodded towards someone out in the dark. We waited. My brothers and I stood still awaiting what command might follow. A murmur of deep voices was heard. Words of profound meaning, we gathered. 

Somewhere inside me, a delicate joy stirred. I had stripped before. Many a student, like yours truly, has had to creatively add a fistful of dollars to his cash flow (have you seen the prices of textbooks?). But this was no usual striptease under the dim lights of a seedy establishment or on the stages of rowdy saloons (or their lesser descendants, that is). No, rather, primordial is the only word in the dictionary that seems to fit whatever ritual our nudity was the focal point of. I am enough of an exhibitionist and adventurer to have smiled at this thought. 

With my buttocks ready for action, akin to Orwell with his rifle in days of yore, I found myself compelled to cast aside the mere instrumentalities of reportage, for a grander purpose beckoned us forth into the crucible of action — true manly action.  

Buck suddenly emerged from the dark, walked up on the stage and handed Lord Hippo a note. The deformed man looked at it and leered briefly as he looked at Victor. Then he spoke:

“Nels and Ken, you have been acquired by the Sovereign. Joy, joy, joy, for you have passed to his most powerful domain. Victor, you have been acquired by the Silver Man. Joy, joy, joy, for you will be the sweet nectar of his fortress and stones.”

Buck placed his heavy hands on Ken’s and my shoulders. A gentleman dressed in a perfectly tailored navy blue suit and a burgundy red tie walked onto the stage. His face was unknown to me. His calm gaze radiated worldly (and more) knowledge and power. The will that lived within this man was powerful, that was certain. We had met the Sovereign. We were fully his.

A rancid smell of pickled onions and day-old sweat reached our nostrils — its source moved onto the stage at the other side. A large man had walked up, dressed in a light grey suit, which despite its tailored origin still failed to fit on the body. When he was within arm’s reach of Victor, he reached out and grabbed Victor’s crotch hard. Victor flinched and he looked in terror at us, like a trapped deer. I felt his fear. This was bad. The Silver Man was bad. This was wrong. Lord Hippo leered again, placed his hand on Victor’s ass, and pushed the warm, playful young man to walk off the stage with the Silver Man into darkness.

“But… Victor… Where is he?” said Ken and turned his head and looked at Buck. Ken’s face was worried, he radiated the most innocent emotions. His eyes, like the ones of the kitten, appealed to the stronger man and tugged on heartstrings if any were to be found.

“Silence. Not now,” admonished Buck the dear young man his hand rested on. I noticed, however, that behind his stern gaze, square jaw and wide chest, some discomfort stirred inside Buck as well. 

“True potential in beauty and action for goodness. Time to go home. To the true home you are destined for,” spoke the Sovereign. His voice had both timbre and directness that were felt in the bones and balls.

Buck directed our path off the stage and through doors and antechambers before we again were seated, still nude, inside a large vehicle. Though there were windows and no blindfolds around our heads this time, it was dark outside — proper country-dark — as if electricity had vanished. 

The journey was short. And again Ken and I moved quickly through rooms and corridors, these, however, were opulent and grand. We held hands for comfort. He is a good guy. We were a bit nervous — the sort you feel between the belly button and balls. 

We arrived at the epicentre of it all. I knew so because at last, I was met by the handsome, radiating and nourishing faces whose shallow depictions had been with me from the very start of my journalistic endeavour: the disappeared men.

They were as attractive and delicious, if not more, as in the photos. In the present time and place, though, their countenance shone calm, joy, fulfilment, glorious purpose, and even precious and powerful youthful strength. Gone was that depressed gaze turned downwards, the forlorn stare into a distant nothingness, the feeble posture of limp men drowning in ennui and anxiety. 

Whatever animated them, it was potent. What prayer had been heard? What curse had been undone? What magic potion had been imbibed?

And as was true for both Ken and I, gone from our flesh was all modern fibre. Some were stark naked, most wore a simple loincloth of leather, linen or a thin muslin weave, and a few wore delicately crafted pieces of metal armour on their bodies. 

In the room were also tough and stern men present, Buck and Doctor Matthew included. The illumination of the salon was however faint and mysterious so the reader will have to forgive me for not providing a full accounting of the men who would witness the next stage in the transformation (rebirth, resurrection, revelation, what words truly apply?) of Ken and I. 

The harbinger of what was to come was his bright golden hair. His body emerged from the darkness. A tall young man with a proud walk, handsome, sharp jawline, strong, and brimming with untamed youthful power walked to greet the Sovereign. In some places of our land, he might be referred to as a jock, a bully, a top dog. But for this place, within the Sovereign’s domains, these terms were vulgar and misplaced. Here the old ways were more apt. 

He was a man leagues and leagues above me. So way above that I would never dare flirt with him. Never try to connect with him on the apps. Even a subtle ass wiggle many feet away in a dark bar or club to catch his attention would have been too presumptuous. The only proper and true way for me to enter his orbit is as precious loot, brought to his feet by the generals of his victorious armies, a token of his complete conquest and dominance. Only that way I felt was I ever to be elevated near a man of such glory and immensity.

“One day you will command and grow this kingdom, to rule as tradition dictates. Much to learn yet, though, my son. But here are two men to join with, with whom to grow and nourish your powers through command,” said the Sovereign and pointed to Ken and me. “Grasp their bodies. Fill your palms. Taste their forms.”

The Prince (his proper and very apt title, I later learned) turned to look at us. He had that confident look, both foreboding and arousing to be subjected to as if it could penetrate your body and soul. Ken and I stood in attention, as it were, awaiting his force. And waited long we did not. The Prince moved his hands over our bodies eagerly. He groped and fondled all that which is perky and firm. He probed and pried until we yielded. He was turned on, like a force of nature.

His animal urges burst out as he leaned in and pushed me and Ken onto our backs on a large table. With overwhelming force, he push my legs upwards and apart, such that my dick and butt were exposed and served up to sate his desires and hunger for the sweetness of my body.

I felt his force on me. The suction, probing, scratching, groping, biting and all kinds of pressures. By sensation alone, a boy would be forgiven if he believed to be the object of cruel foreplay by an apex predator animal who had dragged delicate meat into his cave.

As is true for all the young horny top guys, as nature has decreed, he was quick to take out his dick and set its aim at my butt. Was it an urge for the tight warm loving grip? Or the allure of being in command of something tender and pliable? Whatever it was the untamed mind so forcefully desired, the Prince had to have it. He pressed himself inside with a groan. 

I did not see his dick. I felt his manhood. I yelped and reached out with my hand. Ken was at my side and he grasped my hand. He channelled his warmth and care through his gentle hand as my butt was reflexively transformed into a pulsating love animal. I felt bliss at this junction of loving bottom solidarity on one end, and voracious male dominance taking me at the other end.

Speaking of reflexive transformation, the Prince was thrusting fast and frenetically. What are these young top guys racing towards? Regardless of his aim, the mechanics to get there involved the loud and deep pounding of my butt. It was glorious fucking and fucking glorious.

He then set his aim at Ken. With a confident push, he moved Ken over on the stomach, butt up. That pair of cresting love muscles was a sight to behold, and the Prince touched these gifts Ken offered as he calmed his excited breathing.

The Prince then let his whole weight press down on Ken. The force of gravity joined them, Ken squeezed on the bottom. The Prince moved his hips left to right, such that his big hard dick rolled over Ken’s buttocks. Ken moaned a bottom’s moan of anticipation as the Prince secured a firm embrace of Ken’s torso and nibbled on Ken’s ears.

The Prince looked at me and nodded towards his dick. I knew without a doubt what command I had been given. It was my duty to guide the Prince inside Ken. Direct that solid piece of manhood into Ken, and make my dear sweet, beautiful friend feel the pain, lust and love of total sexual submission to the strong man on top. If that doesn’t count as doing a good deed in this world, then what does?

It felt so good. It was beautiful. The sounds we made together were like sweet and smooth nectar drizzled over throbbing balls of ice cream fucking in a warm subtropical breeze.

For a brief moment, I directed my gaze outwards, away from the loud and sweaty display of the Prince’s total command over Ken. I saw the handsome faces of the lost men hypnotically watching. Again I observed their inner strength shine from within. These were not crestfallen men riddled with doubt and depression — no longer. What is the opposite of crestfallen? Elated? Rhapsodic? Crest-risen? Boner-like-rocket-thrusting-upwards-confident? Alive-with-the-sensation-of-being-filled-with-purpose-and-fat-throbbing-dick-ness? Whatever the uncensored thesaurus may say, these young men felt it, had it, were it.

My eyes met Doctor Matthew’s. He smiled at me and nodded. He felt pride. He had the expression of a man who had done his duty well. What had started when he fondled my inner thigh — or more likely started well before that — had now concluded satisfactorily. Or had it concluded? The forceful climax of the Prince on top of the loudly panting Ken was a conclusion of sorts, but I felt, a launch as well of something which I am yet to grasp as I write these words in secret on this morning after.

I knew this much: like Orwell before me, this was no longer just reporting. I was part of this, top to bottom, tush to tip, moan and groan. Should I even be writing this?