Date: Fri, 28 Mar 2008 14:49:27 -0700 (PDT)
From: Ted M <mpls_ted@yahoo.com>
Subject: Taking Mark's Virginity: Remember The King:  Part 2

"Strip." I order him.

Fitch is barely across my threshold when he gets his first command. He
hasn't even had time to remove his faded brick-red ball cap.

He eyes me menacingly, as if unsure whether he came tonight to actually
submit or attack me. His icy emerald eyes glare at full-power.

But he isn't leaving.

If Fitch intended to back out, he wouldn't have been on time. Fitch would
have been an hour late, two hours, and partially drunk. And I would have
sent him home. No, he did exactly as I told him: not a minute late, not a
minute early.

It's Friday afternoon at 4:00 p.m. If he strips, he may not see these
clothes until 10 p.m. Saturday night. He wanted to meet on Saturday to
Sunday, but I insisted on Friday. I want him leaving my house on Saturday
at 10 p.m. It's perfect for him.

But he already granted his full submission by showing up exactly as
commanded. His petty stare down is just an aftershock of that
decision. It's already over.

So Fitch strips.

He chucks the ball cap to the floor with a dramatic flourish and if he were
hoping for the accompanying dramatic sound, he doesn't get it. He rustles
the designer T over his fat chest, his muscles bouncing in response to the
jerky movements and his fat pink nipples pouting on swollen pecs. He is
suddenly a poster boy for Sexy Angry Youth, except he had missed the age
deadline by a decade.

And that's when his entire, furious demeanor shifts.

See, I had greeted him at the door in what I'd wear to the corner grocery
on a lazy Sunday morning: jeans, orange T-shirt, open, quilted flannel
shirt. There is no costume, no pretense at being someone I am not. Fitch
notices this. And he sees in my eyes that I can handle his silent rage, his
furious injustice at how he has come to be stripping in my foyer and I am
not even thrown off balance. I am not kowtowing at the Church of Fitch,
even after flashing me those tanned flanks of calendar beef.

Instead, I stand at attention - not military attention - but something
similar enough, a heightened awareness of how this will likely go down, how
Fitch will most likely respond. My head is cocked to one side as if
listening to music Fitch can't quite hear. I am not shocked or dismayed by
his sullen demeanor. I do not respond with vague leather threats to his
silent tantrum.

Anything like that from me would be grounds for his walking out.

Every submissive tests his top to answer the question: are you worthy of
me? Are you worthy of this gift I offer you? Fitch is taking my measure and
if I don't prove myself worthy in these first two minutes, he's outta here.

And that's why the furious demeanor shifts: he has decided I am worthy.

His anger melts into frustration, the frustration into an angular
confusion, confusion to well..more confusion. Why is he here? To learn
what? To do what? It jangles him. Fitch doesn't much care for confusion
when life can be made simple.

After his shoes and socks are gone, he shows me this angular confusion and
his hands pause on the top button of his jeans.

"I-"

He looks at me with a flash of fresh anger, as he realizes he is internally
debating whether to speak aloud. Fitch doesn't like that he has factored
this into his decision-making. He hasn't even been in my house three
minutes.

Before he can start again, I cut him off with a sharp, crisp voice.

"What would you risk? What would you do to find him?"

Fitch frowns. Instead of clarifying what was expected, whether he should
speak, this makes it worse. What the hell was that I just said? Is he
supposed to answer? Is this a test?

And risk what?

Fitch's right hand rests on the top button and his brain is complaining,
`THIS WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE HARD.'

Do not misunderstand.

Fitch is smart.

His gleaming intelligence extends to, through, and beyond knowledge of the
material world to a rich understanding of his impact on others, and how
they revolve around his gravitational pull. He has spent enough time at the
center of his universe to know about influence, about how people work. And
he's got some interesting self-knowledge that doesn't quite match with his
outward persona. He knows things about himself, things he chooses not to
share with the outside world.

And that's the source of confusion. He is sharing something with the
outside world (me) that he's not sure he's ready to admit. He has done
nothing more than remove his shirt and he feels like he has betrayed a
bigish secret that will not be easy to `take back.'

Fitch hasn't decided whether to answer verbally or how to answer, but his
hand has grown bored and already starts completing the mindless task of
unzipping his basket-faded jeans over the mighty bulge. Fitch is shucking
his jeans while his brain his working out a logical, cautious response to
the aforementioned issues.

His underwear is special, of course. I told him to wear his best `club
jockeys,' the ones that guaranteed getting laid if they happened to
`accidentally' get displayed during the course of a club night. They're
tight, and the shiny baby-blue fabric tents out impressively.  There's a
criss-cross of laces which expose his tanned thigh.

This is a nice bonus. I like blue.

And the tent reveals the true source of the confusion. While Fitch's
upstairs brain is saying `Wait, let's reconsider,' his downstairs brain is
stretching awake from a nap. Stretching just a little plumper than normal
so that we both know his body can't completely lie and claim disinterest.

"I wore my best ones." He says defiantly, overcompensating a little. It's a
little late to throw me attitude.

But I nod and look him in the eye, nodding at an equal. He is testing me to
see if I'm a total asshole about this or someone who might also share a
shred of compassion to a man in his position. Again, Fitch is finding out
the boundaries. By a simple nod of quiet acknowledgement, he can see I
don't hate him, this isn't punishment. It just is what it is.

I say nothing more, indicate nothing else, but I look at him with a little
more questioning eyes – just a tad – to suggest that there is
something he started that he hadn't quite finished.

Now, what was that?

Fitch hooks his thumbs under those baby blues and flips the fabric
overboard, bouncing his cock out and into the spotlight with little
fanfare. It's a `let's-get-this-gawking-overwith' move and his jockies are
bunched around him mid-thigh, giving me opportunity to see the mighty Fitch
Dick.

I don't have to look down to see it's big, so I don't bother to break eye
contact.

>From the corner of my eye I can see the blond fuzzy suggestion around its
base, carefully mowed and trimmed to suggest he just naturally grows his
pubes in this masculine array. Right. I'm guessing he has one of his bitch
boys sculpt it exactly the way he likes it.

His eyes are waiting to catch my jaw drop, my eyes quiver, betray some cock
lust. But I won't.

Strip. My eyes are telling him because I don't care to repeat
myself. Strip.

He kicks off the briefs, making sure to turn my way to let me see his ass
as the last elastic short leg rounds his right foot.

Yeah, Fitch, I see it.

He's naked now, the `more confusion' stage.

Fitch is naked and semi-hard in my foyer.

It's Friday at 4:05 p.m. and he's mine for the next 30 hours, give or take
five minutes.

He looks at me with a combination of boredom, irritation, and a `let's get
it overwith' look that I find really funny. You'd think he was here to take
a written essay test.

"Follow me." I tell him and pass through the oak doorframe into my living
room.

I almost wish I could see how Fitch walked into the room. Would he retain
the Fitch saunter that I tracked through nightclubs for the past few
months? Or would he walk as a man who knows a bit more about himself than
others suspect, the walk of a man submitting to what happens next. Humbler
steps to be sure, and yet honest for him.

I really believe that Fitch is a top. A total top, probably. And he means
to be a top long after tomorrow is over. It's just that tonight – well,
tonight he's not on top. And he's not sure why. But it doesn't really
matter anymore because that debate was shed with his expensive jeans and
carefully tattered ball cap on the wooden foyer of my bungalow home.

He gasps as he enters the room, I can hear that.

A hundred candles circle a generous radius in the middle of the room. There
are tea lights, and pillar columns, candles in holders, candles jammed into
bad pottery, long tapers in quirky holders. Fat and burnt low candles,
radiant orange candles, burgundy and blue bases, light shining
through. Shimmering flames two and, in some areas of the circle, three
candles deep around a center that would easily encompass seven or eight
people standing near each other, but tonight there will be only two.

I'm one of them; I'm standing in the center.

Fitch glances at the windows to see if he can be seen, cock bobbing with a
little more swing, significantly more interested in this room than the
foyer. But thick hunter green curtains block the late-afternoon
sun. Despite the fact that it's June, there's a fire cheerfully blazing in
this front room. Wouldn't want Fitch to get chilly.

Fitch hesitates on the perimeter of the circle, knowing this is one of
those moments just like shedding his clothes. To step inside is to
surrender, but didn't he do that already? So what's the big deal now?
Except it feels like a big deal, it feels a little more honest, a little
more naked than a minute ago, like admitting, yes, I DID like what you just
did to me.

One leg dips over tentatively as if testing the water on this side of
submission, but then the normal Fitch attitude catches wind of this
wishy-washy confusion and he steps the rest of himself inside with a thud
and a defiant look flits across his granite features suggesting, `Yeah?
So?'

I indicate his should drop to his knees with a flicker of my head.

We're already enough in synch that he gets me instantly and after looking
around the room helplessly, drops to one knee. Then the other knee goes
down and he is suddenly, unexpectedly, kneeling.

Kneeling?!

How has Fitch gotten here?

What would his workout partner say about this?

Or the twink dude he bred last week, whispering, `Duuuuude' as he gushed
his Fitchy nut inside Scotty's quivering butt. Or maybe his name was
Robbie. Meh. Whoever the twink was, he was last week's catch. And I bet
that before the sperm in Scotty/Robbie's ass had cooled to room temperature
Fitch was choosing his exit strategy. Or already gone.

Kneeling, he drops his head. At this point, why not? If someone were to
catch him this way, Fitch wouldn't want to look into their eyes anyway.

"Slather up." I nudge his forehead with a slight clunk of a glass
bottle. He probably didn't see me holding anything.

"Garlic olive oil?" he mutters. "You've got to be kidding."

"If I were you," I choose my words carefully, "I'd make sure every spot was
covered. Every spot I cared about, at least."

Fitch understands subtlety.

He unscrews the cap and after a brief, unsatisfactory whiff, he pools it in
his right hand and begins slathering up his chest. That land of perfection
glistens and gleams in the fruity, robust smell. By the time he is working
his neck and skull, Fitch has forgotten already about the garlicky smell
because something – something smells damn good. Fitch caresses his
stomach muscles and only after the fifth or sixth coating with smelly olive
oil he senses that this is possibly more erotic than the thought because it
seems his dick head is now covered with slimy goo – and it's not the
olive oil.

Fitch Dick refuses to bow low during this and is shaking its meat,
demanding attention. Fitch coats it, but carefully, not willing to show
more of an erection if that's possible. Seems pretty erect and fat to me.

The room smells like garlic as Fitch coats his face and skull last, working
in the juice to his skin, behind his ears, and wondering where this is
going.

Watching him obey this simple command has revealed a few details to me,
errogeous zones I would have uncovered within the next few minutes anyway,
but the early intel is useful.

Nipples: yes.

Stomach: yes

Neck: yes, two spots in particular

Thighs: no

Back: not really. Maybe a little along the spine.

Cock: sure, but overused.

Balls: sure but only in the obvious way. He doesn't know much about ball
pleasure yet.

Butt: Definitely.

Fitch had dribbled a little olive oil into his hand behind his back and
missed the goal. A goopy squirt hit his lower lats and dripped lower,
following the hard curves until the oil naturally ran down the cleft of his
ass, enough of a glob to make him kneel straight up in wet surprise and
hope I didn't see that.

That I didn't see his body shift, the surprise, the glorious surprise of a
vibrating, powerful butt.

I caught it.

He's now covered in oil, a thin sheen, like moisturizer if he were going to
bed. But he won't be getting sleep for a while.

I pull the fabric blindfold from my back pocket and drop it in front of him
on the wooden floor.

"Put it on."

Too much – it's too far. Fitch wants to stand and say, "Listen, I'm
playing along but be reasonable!"

Each mini-threshold a requirement is paving the way for the next, the next
level, the next surrender. And while they still feel like decisions to
Fitch, each step cascades against the next, like dominos crashing one after
the other. He can't even see the first domino anymore, so why bother
fighting this one?

The blindfold goes on. It has to.

He inhales its scent, strong cedar, sandlewood, and pine.

Fitch wobbles.

It's heady, the scent of the blindfold, almost as if I had made my own
brand of poppers and soaked this nothing piece of fabric until it reeked of
clean, fresh, masculine spunk. He inhales deeply, my Fitch, and his cock
bounces hard, and yes, now it's fully erect.

And now that he's blindfolded, I can look.

Yup, it's the Fitch Dick. Probably 9 inches, fat inches at that. It's the
dick that guys brag about to their buddies over Sunday bar brunch, saying,
`Yeah, he's cool, he's got a good job and he's nice...and hmmmm...oh yeah,
his dick is fucking huge.' Flared pink head, silky around the base of the
blunt, plum head. Yup...a bruiser. The kind that sorta feels good.

Now, time to tie him up. Honestly, I'm not a big fan of the circusy parts
of this type of sex: the crazed obsessed fetishist who can only be
restrained by blue socks and only tied with Japanese knots. Those narrow
parameters can kill the sacred flow. On the other hand, some of the
practices do have their uses, bringing possibilities and
revelations. Bondage can be useful for releasing trapped emotions.

So Fitch gets a little bound up. With box string.

It doesn't look like much, quite ordinary string, really. But then, some of
the best things in life come lookin' like that.

I swing a the beginning around his left wrist, and wind it under the
opposite foot's big toe. I string it back to his other wrist and the other
big toe. Down to the tip of his index finger where I make two loops, then
back to the original wrist...and so forth until his fingers and toes and
wrists are enmeshed in a web of interconnected sensations. Every toe and
every finger are caught in this web. It's not too tight. He has a few
inches to maneuver around and not tug a toe or finger inadvertently.

Fitch is nothing but patient during my weaving, but this is early in the
kneeling, so we'll see how he holds up. He feels me, feels the fire, knows
his bouncing dick is comfy but lonely, and he's okay so far. A few deep
breathes and he feels like himself again.

Fitch looks great naked and wearing my special blindfold. He's glistening
in the candle light, shiny and garlic smelling, his 20 digits intertwined
in what I refer to as `the orgasmic grid.'

Okay, so I lied to him. I do have a few props.

I pick up a peppermint-colored pillar candle and hover over his right
shoulder.  "When was the last time you had sex?" I ask softly.

Fitch speaks towards the floor. "I didn't jack off for the last three days,
like you said."

I let the wax drip off the side and catch his right blade.

"Ow!" he says and it's not pain, but anger he feels. "You FUCKER!"

"Sorry." Fitch mumbles instantly, head down. He has apparently twitched his
fingers or toes and realized he probably shouldn't swear at the dude
holding fire.

"You didn't answer the question." I explain quietly. "When was the last
time you had sex?"

"Four days ago!" Fitch says quickly.

"With...?"

"I dunno...this Mexican. He was from online."

"What was his name?" I ask him.

"I dunno...Rich or..." Fitch is searching. "Pedro."

Aw, c'mon, Fitch. You could have at least invented less of a stereotypical
name.

I drop the wax a little closer to the neck.

"FUCK!" he yelps. "I don't know! I didn't care!"

Now that, I can respect. Truth.

"And before that? Who did you have sex with before him?"

The conversation continues along this way for a few minutes, as we chat
about his past six months, times he promised to call but didn't, guys who
he slightly mislead by withholding the fact that he didn't want a second
date, times he left as soon as he had cum, forgetting about the other guy's
nut. (Well, unless the other guy wants it that way. Some guys do.)

Fitch didn't break down sobbing or express insincere regret, but I can see
that it does not always please his memory to add up the numbers, to see the
disregard. And this is why Fitch is not a complete throw-away. There
actually is decency in him, a lot perhaps, but it's buried deep, a strong
enough vein of kindness to know that he's been a douche.

By the time we are finished, Fitch is panting just a bit, and clearly this
was the kinkiest sex where he had bottomed. He has about 18 splashes of wax
decorating him, shades of red, royal blue, and a green on the underside of
his right foot, which he had unfortunately, forgotten to slather with olive
oil. I think that splash may have actually stung Fitch a little bit.

Although shifting and flexing his muscles uneasily, Fitch isn't in real
pain. His body is just surprised, awake, and on edge. Fitch doesn't have
much to worry about; I'm not a fan of anything severe.

On a scale of 1-10, I'd say my preferred level of pain – administering
or receiving – is about the equivalent of lying on the couch and unable
to reach the remote.  I have had guys ask me to punch them, beat them, kick
them with boots, but I can't do it. It awakens a part of my life that I do
not visit, I will not live there in that way again. Even if this time I'm
the one kicking.

And yet when pain is in service to a higher power, a greater good, like
getting an asshole to relive his life for 20 minutes and see if he likes
the wake he leaves behind...yes. I'll do it. To some degree.

We end with me asking to name – in any sequence – even HALF the names
of the men who he had mentioned. Fitch had been to New York and Atlanta a
few times in the past six months, so the list was a bit lengthy. He lied
about remembering names at first, which meant a drop of fresh, sizzling,
candle wax.

So Fitch stopped lying, utterly bewildered by trying to figure out how I
always knew which one was a lie and which one was true.

My older brother was a cop until he retired. He taught me how to read lies,
to see the way the leave the lips all gnarled and broken. Lies emerge like
cigarette smoke, stinging the eyes and curling in soft wreathes around the
wearer. Truth has a different sound, a texture that's soft like cotton or
smooth, like ice cream before the first scoop. Truth isn't always pretty or
nice. But it's less broken than lies.

"What about the guy you fucked in that Atlanta Marriott?"

"I don't know." Fitch says gruffly.

A drop of wax to his knee.

"The parking lot dude."

"I don't know."

Another drop. Another smooth plane of glistening, shiny Fitch gets a drop
of wax.

"The one who ditched his visting parents to meet you."

"I dunno."

Fitch flinches in anticipation and as soon as he relaxes I drop wax on his
chest again.

"Oh, man." He says, wincing.

He's not paying attention to his dick, but I am. It's confused...turned on
by something, but is it really candle wax? Or could it be that his cock is
responding truth? Could it be that telling the fucking truth is starting to
bone him up? His cock shimmies between fat drilling hardon and hard spongy,
unsure why nobody is touching it.

"The Hot Asian guy."

"I dunno."

"Hot married dude who you bit on the shoulder and deliberately left a
mark."

"I never asked his name." says Fitch, tired of mouthing the same words.

The conversation continues this way for a bit longer until I hear what I
need to hear.

"I don't know." Fitch says again, but slower. There's a twinge of something
new.

Sadness.

"I don't know." He volunteers again before I ask him a question and that
twinge of sadness is staying.

I gently ask him for two more names. He's not going to break down
crying. He's not THAT bummed out. Fitch loves sex and this is a story about
him getting lots of sex.  It's just surprising and sad sometimes, when you
add up your life. Not suicide sad, just kinda like, `Oh. I guess I thought
I'd have more to show.'

Fitch says glumly, "I don't know."

The last two drippings sting him, but they're small like the tears he's not
crying, starting to drip, but then not at all.

I kneel next to Fitch.

His body leans forward a little and whether or not I'm done dripping wax,
he knows he's done reacting. He had his guard up the whole time, and
somehow the worst possible thing has happened: he got seen.

I put my warm hand on his shoulder and give a little pressure, to honor
him, to remind him that despite what just happened, there's actually a
friend in the room. And then I step outside the circle, leaving him there,
Fitch and his Fitch Men, everyone crowded inside the sacred circle. And
they're looking at him now, seeing him, judging him perhaps. And Fitch is
naked and dripping garlic and his fingers are webbed and his wrists are
bound.

I stoke the fire and throw on two more logs and when I turn to him, Fitch
is a little sad, and little sagging to the right. Not boo-hoo crying. That
impulse was fleeting and passed. I re-enter kneel next to him.

"Anything you want to say to them?" I ask in the quietiest voice I own.

"Nope." Fitch says evenly but his voice is just a little tired. "Not...any
of them, except that guy who I made pay my cab fare."

I put my hand on the back of his head, his blond turned brown and in
greasy, garlicky strands. I massage the back of him, and gently point his
head downwards.

"Say it, then." I suggest.

"This is stupid." Fitch grunts.

"Say it."

Fitch opens his mouth and pauses for a minute. "Sorry, dude. That was raw."

I wipe his forehead with a towel soaked in cool water. There's a bowl of
cool water next to my side. I am careful and slow, using the right pressure
to remove wax and make him feel my loving touch.

Fitch grunts again. "This is so gay."

I kneel by his side wringing out the towel. The water sounds cool and he is
quite warm and tired.

I put my hand in the middle of his back. He flinches at first and I suspect
his knees are getting a little sore.

Feel me, Fitch. Feel me. This is what compassion feels like.

Fitch clears his throat and is silent. Then he mumbles, "I'm sorry, Atlanta
Museum dude. Should have used more lube."

I wipe his right pec, and he softens more. I'm being kind and loving to the
partners of his biggest hobby: working that chest. He can't help but
appreciate the soft rubbings, the fingertip tracing his nipple to make sure
everything is wiped off.

"I'm sorry, Asian dude with ugly chest hair. I shouldn't have made you flip
over."

I wipe away another wax thread, and underneath, the skin feels cool and
refreshed and honestly, possibly a little lighter.

About the fifth, "I'm sorry," my Fitch feels it. He gets out a `Sor-` and
his voice cracks and stops. He is genuinely sorry. Not a begrudging or
forced sorry. Just sorry.

He keeps apologizing gruffly, and I keep wiping him clean.

And listening.

And by about the 9th 'I'm sorry' he had spent all the shame and
guilt. They're just words again and the little trapped emotion has been
released. It was good – he did good work.

And now I wipe wax away from everything else, the same slow strong strokes
across glistening fields of muscle. He is silent during this, and Fitch is
ruminating about the past and men who he possibly had loved. It's happy/sad
to find love. It's miserable/sad to lose it. And sometimes to revisit it
once again is just plain old sad.

I'm wiping other parts of his flesh now with longer strokes and removing
some of the oily sheen. A second bowl has water holds tepid water and my
damp cloth that feels sensational against the warm skin. His body is
responding to my long strokes, meeting me, pushing against me.

"Once there was a tribe of men," I begin telling Fitch in a slow-speaking,
clear voice.

He stretches and is reminded of his bindings.

"A tribe of men populated entirely of kings. Odd you may think, and wonder
how any work got done in such a society with everyone making rules. Who did
the work? But they weren't those kinds of kings."

I have finished wiping the insides and outsides of his legs, his knees, and
Fitch is not so sad anymore.

This feels better, relaxing almost to feel stroked and wetly held. Upon
finishing his legs, I roughly kissed the top of his right knee, a place I
recently spilt some wax and watched his cock waggle quite vehemently. What
an odd little erotic spot.

As expected, the kiss brought sensory memory and the physical awakening to
an this tender area. Feels kinda groovy. Fitch's fat cock stretches up
rather quickly. After all, it wasn't asleep during the previous part, just
confused.

Fitch is a just a twinge more attentive now, so I continue.

"There was not a throne room with 4,000 thrones or 10,000
thrones. No. These kings were rightful kings, every one, so they did not
need such props. They chose to live lives as they kinged: gardeners,
blacksmiths, even the tax collectors were fair and just kings."

Fitch nods and his cock is still waving below, bewildered why it's had to
be this patient. There's never this much foreplay before it's inside warm
and breed-worthy.

"Repeat it back to me. Everything."

Fitch stutters at first and them passes on what he remembers. "There's this
place where it's all kings. And they gardened stuff. Uh...everyone still
worked, I guess."

I thwack the back of his foot where the wax was (sans-garlic olive oil)
– a bit more sensitive than the other spots.

"Remember better." I tell him.

Fitch repeats the story, pretty good this time, and now he's paying
attention. But he's also paying attention to his dick, not used to three
days of non-service.

To the outside observer, it would seem I am both strongly encouraging - and
- preventing his concentration. Yeah, that's pretty much the plan. I want
him distracted body and mind. It'll make this all the more powerful.

I am silent for a moment while Fitch is rehearsing the story with more
remembered details, eager not to go back to candle wax. Maybe he smells the
100 burning candles. That's a lot of wax and Fitch doesn't know that it
would be pointless to return to that stage – he either got it or he
didn't.

And Fitch got it.

I knew he would – he has much more depth to be mined.

"If I were you," I interrupt him and then seem to choose my words
carefully. "I think I would listen very attentively to the story."

Fitch nods eagerly, which twists his arms, which twitch his fingers, which
twitch his toes and there's a thrill of unpleasant sensation racing through
all his extremities. I bet he panics a little wondering how that sensation
will feel in 10 minutes.

Running my finger tips up and down his spine, I continue.

"And so in the tribe of All Kings, all brothers were rightful owners of the
kingdom. You might run into King Ryan the Protector, and King Nathan the
Beloved Father, while on your way to visit the castle of King Peter the
Sculptor.  They loved freely with open hearts, some laying with other kings
and some seeking women as queens. I met one such king, a queen seeker,
named Malcolm The Restorer, an African giant whose voice commanded love and
goodness from those most abandoned from their true selves."

Fitch is trying to take it all in.

"King Vladimir, Finder of Beauty, was always a favorite in this tribe as he
could name the beauty in any man, the plainest and cruelly blest came
grinning and bashful from the hands of King Vladimir. King Dirk, the
Planter of Wonders managed to grow ideas and confidence in men the way some
grow rich tomatoes from seed.

Fitch is muttering words, trying to make sure he gets the key
points. "Vladimir...plainest guys...Dirk...tomatoes..."

It's cute to see him working like this.

At the same time, his body is responding to the spine-tingling and arching
just a little bit. His neck jerks to the side when my fingernail grazes the
smooth cleft leading to his anus, and his right thigh twitches as I begin
to caress his right knee.

Fitch is a harp.

Every candle wax sensation has created a sensitive patch of skin where the
merest strum from my fingers creates an overactive nerve signal report that
is being delivered over and over from dozens of centers. I know the zones
now, the two spots on his neck, right above the knee, the cleft of his ass,
all of them.

The Fitch Dick is bouncing furiously, really eager for some of this
touching action every other part of the body seems to be enjoying.

While continuing my rubbings, caressing, stimulating of the hot spots all
over Fitch, I occasionally ad a slow, languished stroke to his cock. I
kneel next to Fitch so I can `add presence' to the list of sensations
assaulting him. I lean in close and whisper my rough and textured voice.

"They were in peace, these kings. Kai the Goofy, Dylan the Blessor, and
Perry the Forgiver were in charge of discipline, which consisted of sitting
with a King brother and saying, "Come now, brother. What's going on?" A
king owns his shit, as much as he can, so every matter was usually resolved
with much jocularity and even greater self-awareness."

Fitch is trying to listen to all the king names I throw at him, but
something has changed.

I am gently rubbing his anus, a bumble bee sensation leisurely buzzing to
and fro on his most vulnerable orfice. He was smart to put a little garlic
olive oil on it and I am using that oil to gently explore each tender
fold. I am still rubbing his chest, his legs, the inside of his thigh where
I deliberately dripped wax.

Fitch darts, twinges, each jerk upsetting the difficult balance of kneeling
and a web of string constraining every single move.

He's sweating too, the heat, the fire, the wax, my talking right into his
face, my words flowing into his mouth like a kiss he cannot break.

It's exhausting for him - how moving his right shoulder twinges the third
toe's movement, and in turn, the sensation has twitched all the way through
the orgasmic grid to the left side of his neck, causing another jerk.

Perhaps you see where this is going.

Fitch is about to have a hands-off orgasm. And it's going to just about
knock him unconscious.

"The orchards were full of ripe, luscious peaches, the beer brewed and
frothy, and King Nareeb the Baker of Gifts made sure any king had fresh
warm croissants and the ripest fruit pies. And life continued exceptionally
well for a timeless age, more kings discovering themselves and suddenly
arriving.

"And oh, the gay kings. Well, you wouldn't believe them."

I twist Fitch's nipple and he arches in pleasing agony.

"King Curtis the Open Hearted, and King Jarnell the Kisser were gifted in
bestowing physical love, while King Matthew the Dancer would eat your ass
until you spurted just from that alone."

At this graphic turn in the story, Fitch twitches, sending out dozens of
post-twitches, and the overloaded nerves continue towards their reckless
end.

Fitch's cock is confused by the occasional clamping around the base, the
errant stroke that never leads to anything substantial. And yet, the
journey has already begun and is halfway there, but how and when did that
happen? His nuts are bouncing dangerously in their sack, getting knocked
around as Fitch's knees occasionally jerk up and down.

Did you know there are about 6 different sensations you can create on the
ball sack? Well, more gifted lovers than me are probably laughing and
mouthing the word `amateur' in response to this estimate, but I've found
about 6. Maybe 7 on some guys. Right now I'm creating #5 by tightly
pinching the `seam,' with my forefinger and thumb, each tweak vibrating an
electricity that shoots alarming shockwaves out of his nuts.

"And the cum baths, the Gay Kings enjoyed," I purr into him, and he
swallows the words as they drip down his throat.

"Those Kings celebrated their bodies with relish, the chunky kings and
oddly thin. Those with small dicks and those with long beards. And they
laughed at themselves naked, laughed with joy to be in their physical body
and so at peace. At night they laughed at the stars in the sky and during
this laughter they kissed and loved each others until each King radiated
light."

Fitch is moaning and I don't know if he could pass any memory task I gave
him right now.

"They laughed at the stars..." I whisper to him softly, hoping he remembers
this line.

"Remember the words." I change my tone a little, just a little to include
an edge. "Words matter, Fitch."

He nods, but is losing control of his responses and so he nods a bit too
vehemently and this sets off his fingers and toes into a frenzied
twinge. His chest pumps up and out involuntarily and he groans up towards
the ceiling. Every synapse is merging, the signals confused, too much
sensation and too much to report to the brain, which is busy multitasking
managing a deteriorating central nervous system and taking dictation for an
invented story with too many names.

"The best part," I croak into his ear, deliberately elongating and rounding
words so they're rich and oaky.

I am rubbing his anus non-stop and it's begging for me to stop or quit
fucking around and stick my goddam finger in.

"The very best part..." I croak.

Fitch gasps and the words create a shiver that I accentuate by twisting his
nipple.

"Was the dawn."

Fitch's cock is leaping now, trying to hit something, a coffee table or
chair edge for god's sake...some sort of contact, some little friction
would go a long way right now. I clasp his cock head and pinch it tight.

Fitch's mouth pops open.

"Listen!" I tell him. "Listen! They would greet the dawn together, Kings
all. For such an enchanted tribe as this, it was not hard for King Lawrence
of the Coast to meet in a grassy field with King Nigel the Gifted
Listener. So all kings gathered in the pre-dawn darkness.

"And some men raised their arms to welcome the dawn, and others held each
other's plump cocks as a `hey, how ya' doin' King Frank?"

His eyes are closed, his mouth is slack and his body is no longer under his
brain's command. It's twisting and jerking, the kneeling, the wax, the heat
from the fire, the twinges of the orgasmic grid: it's pure mutiny below the
neck.

"And the dawn would cuuuumm..." I whisper richly, and Fitch is jerking his
neck as if to twist it off.  I am careful to not stay too close to him or
he'll knock me out.

"Warm and rich, the gold flowed over them, through them, around them. Rich
and warm, it oozed through every pore..."

I am pouring words into him, pouring the gold into Fitch and his body is
responding.

One finger on his anus, more fingers tickling his hairless nut sack, cold
to the touch and thick-walled, readying itself for the explosion seconds
away. My free hand lightly runs over his body, touching spots and stroking
curves, behind the ears now, under the jaw, and then across the nipple with
my fingernail.

Fitch gasps and twitches, his movements growing more erratic by the second.

"And dawn would cuuuum," I repeat, "each king dressed in his finest robes,
his golden, shimmering vestments, his royal garb. King Wesley always wore a
rich plum long-sleeved shirt, and King `Cardo wore a satin short-sleeved
with peacock feathers, caressing his body with feathery touches... and the
dawn would cuuuuum, filling each man through his eyes and his heart,
awakening in him the most regal and profound feelings, the golden desire to
be the best possible king."

Fitch is close, and his brain doesn't even know it. His dick does, it's
prisoner status in the crush of my hand, fighting to get free, for freedom
means release.

I let go of the head and Fitch bounces so hard his knees leave the floor.

"All that liquid gold, Fitch." I croon warmly, "Filling a man, reminding
him that a king lived within, the very best of him, a king of untold
quality, each one necessary for the continuation of the kingdom."

My free hand is gliding over the most raw, sensitive parts, moving quickly
and bewildering him. My index fingers exerts just the smallest bit of
pressure on his anus, a gentle knocking, and his body leaps upward.

His cock is cumming but there's no orgasm. It's bobbing and he feels it
doing something, a dry orgasm of sorts, which is painful and only
escalating the rest of the sensations.

Fitch has arrived.

"I am made to understand," I purr, ready for the closing line. "that one
King could even make a man cum by merely demanding it."

He's hanging onto the stretched-out words, and Fitch's body is there, it's
so there ...it's like the elongated last note of an orchestral piece, and
the polite audience is ready to explode with thunderous applause just as
soon as that last, lingering notes drifts into completion.

I rise quickly and stand in front of Fitch.

He's frothing and moaning, his knees are up and down, the Orgasmic Grid has
done its job.

"CUM." I bark at him loudly.

Fitch obeys.

His head jerks up and the blindfold prevents him from seeing me. But if he
did, he would see my arms across my chest, head cocked, paying attention as
if to a curious sight by the side of a road.

It's better that he can't see me. The darkness helps make every sensation
tenfold.

He barks, Fitch barks, and his knees leave the floor.

The first ark of Fitch jizz leaps at me, approaching my knee height and
then splats on the hardwood floor between my legs.

"AAAAAAAAARRRR!' Fitch cries out noises and swear to god, it really is
close to barking.

His body bucks, tugging and pulling his fingers and toes in strange new
directions, and two more spurts of cum splatter to the left and right, one
on my boot and another creaming the floor.

He's ready to collapse, so it's time for me to intervene.

I jump to catch him as he falls to one side, and I pull him into me. I drop
to the floor. He's falling against my lap, my chest, and his body convulses
at the overwhelming human contact. It's too much, too raw, and he fights
against me, pulling away and trying to get closer all at the same time.

I remove the box string web instantly by releasing one of his wrists. The
whole thing was just loosely wrapped around him anyway. He could have
almost let it fall off him if he had only relaxed his bulky arms.

Fitch collapses, his cum still spurting it's spunky goo on his own leg,
then mine, then dribbling to the floor. He is gasping, staring at nothing,
one arm slung around my waist, needing me for support.

I hold him like this, and it will be a few minutes before he can speak or
even wants to. I once had a guy weep after this experience, but that won't
be Fitch.

When he's retelling this tale at some future date - and he will - he'll
reminisce that `once a guy made me cum by saying a single word.'

While that will be true, it won't be the whole truth, because Fitch just
may not remember all the dominos knocked over to get him here; he'll only
remember how he crossed the finish line: drooling, wheezing, spurting more
cum than he knew he had inside him. And with sore knees.

We stay like this and I can feel Fitch's gratitude for me just holding him,
letting him die in my arms for a few minutes. He's grateful I'm not
ordering him to crawl or eat ass or well, blink. He's still panting,
archiving this moment under the heading, Holy Shit What The Fuck Was That?

I stroke Fitch's hair until his breathing returns to more normal. He's weak
and his legs are still confused, numb, sore, unable to stand upright, I'm
betting.

I'll need a minute to untangle my Fitch.

"We should get going." I murmur to Fitch eventually.

"Go where?" His throat is raw and it sounds like he just finished eating
sticks, washing it down with sawdust. There's an edge of disappointment.
I'm sure Fitch was hoping we were done for the night.

Aw, buddy boy, we're barely getting started.

"We're going out for Chinese." I tell him.

Good sex always makes me hungry.

*****
Feedback welcome and appreciated.
mpls_ted@yahoo.com