Date: Tue, 8 Apr 2008 00:00:42 -0700 (PDT) From: Ted M Subject: Taking Mark's Virginity: Remember The King: Part 4 Fitch is a little drunk. And we haven't been drinking. Compassion, laughter, and wonder are truly incredible aphrodisiacs. True, they're less of an immediate high than poppers, but the high lasts longer and the orgasms are stronger. Factor in his newfound, confused delight in submission, his tender-waxed-hot-spots, and several hours of intense dick sucking that has left his cock one bloated mass of sensitive skin. So it's not a surprise that he's stumbling around my living room when we arrive, lurching a little, dazed and tipsy. "I can't believe you didn't let me cum." He complains again. "Quiet." I growl softly. "And wait there, naked." I point to the sacred circle. I don't even bother to wait to see if he complies, because he will. Fitch is in. I leave the room to touch a few small details, prepare the next phase. Mostly, I want him to have a minute to think. And it's almost time to claim the reward. He's almost ready to cross over. I return in roughly 10 minutes and when he sees me and smiles warmly. He wants to nut, true, but he had a few minutes to consider his night, and all things considered, this has been pleasant. Maybe not life-changing, but really quite wonderful, all-in-all. Yeah. That's about to change. "Come." I beckon him to me, and he chuckles, remembering the last time he was in this circle and I said that particular word. Fitch is surprised to see the bathroom as it is, the oversized Jacuzzi tub filled and gurgling clear water, light from a dozen nearby candles refracting a hundred times off the churning, steaming surface. "Uh oh." He grins at me. "Candles." I chuckle. "No worries. That part's over." He sniffs to smell the sandlewood incense and then notices the two bouquets of fat white roses. There's a hunter green fabric/gauze thingee draping from the shower rod to the medicine cabinet, to a tall linen closet door and tacked high on a wall, back to the shower rod, then the linen closet, etc, with tiny white Christmas lights chasing similar patterns, attempting to create the illusion of tree tops or maybe even a magic forest. Things happen in the magic forest. "Hey." Is all that Fitch says, but it somehow conveys his subdued delight adequately. He takes another moment or two to look around to drink it in. The impact is as I hoped: it's like getting a homemade birthday card from a kid. Face it: a kid's crayon drawing is rarely high quality. But the fact that some tiny human being cheerfully created you a sun with a crooked smiley face and scribbly flowers with wide, hugging arms makes the card ridiculously invaluable, possibly the best birthday card you've ever received. There's something sad and beautiful about a dog with two stick legs and a crooked chimney with curlicue smoke. Well, I haven't ever received such a card, but I've seen it enough to know; I've seen the sad joy when something like that breaks your heart. This room probably doesn't look all that spectacular, quite frankly. Let's face it: it's a dressed-up bathroom and there's a toilet right over there with a plunger by its side. But it's something. Finch is having that reaction: someone went through this effort for him. For him. And while Fitch is used to having men lavish attention at him and spend great resources to woo him over, this somehow feels different. It's the kid's birthday card and Fitch is quietly humbled. I invite him into the tub and he lowers himself gently. He's already acting differently in this space, acting like this average bathroom is more, is different than it normally is. This is good. Fitch is seeing things differently. Sometimes there is true and then there is truth. Look for the truth, Fitch. He sits in the tub gently and I turn up the jets. His face is mostly blank and he half-smiles gently towards me, a slightly sad smile, but he doesn't know why. It's okay, Fitch. You don't have to know. I use the stereo remote to play Celtic folk tunes remixed as slow trance music, an oddly relaxing and soothing beat but energetic enough to not induce sleep. I need to keep him awake, after all. "Join me?" he asks quietly. "As you wish." I say and nod to him. My obeying his request with deference makes him frown. He doesn't understand. He asked for it; he got it. Why is there a twinge of melancholy in that? I strip off my clothes and he watches me with interest, and I suspect he is seeing me for the first time. This is good. Fitch is coming back to human, a phrase my older brother the cop taught me. I ease into the warm water so as not to dump too much over the sides. I sit facing him wrapping his legs around mine, pulling him close enough to kiss. Ah, to kiss. We haven't kissed in all our adventures together. Fitch leans in, the slight inclination that says, 'Yeah. Now.' He's ready now. No, not ready...that suggests he's sitting on the couch waiting for the door to ring. No, he wants it. He's been sneaking peeks through the peekhole seeing if we get to kiss anytime soon. He's THAT ready. He wants to taste in the physical world what he's been tasting all night, pouring over his tongue. No, Fitch. Not yet, buddy. So I sit close to him noses almost touching, and I use Irish Spring to wet and wash the side of his neck. We're breathing into each others' mouths. Then I wash the back of it, gently extending my frothy fingers to the base of his skull, tipping him just the slightest bit forward. He licks his lips and leans in. No, Fitch. Not yet, buddy. He chuckles and looks me in the eye. "You take the cake, man. I do NOT get you at all." I smile at him warmly, sudsing his other shoulder. Slow, small circles, like winding an alarm clock. "Who the fuck made you like this, dude? How can you just fuckin' read someone like it's your business." I grin and wiggle my eyebrows. "Seriously, man? How do you fuckin' do this shit? I mean, you must have had some killer sex teacher. Was it your Dad?" I'm smiling at him still, Fitch in his wonder. "Seriously, did your Dad teach you this? Or a first boyfriend?" "No." I tell him softly and look down while I start soaping the sharp crevice in his chest. "I didn't really have a Mom or Dad. Just me." "Oh." He says. I continue to soap him. "Hey. Sorry." He says nervously. "Not a problem." I look him squarely in the eye to let him know it's really okay. "Seriously. Not a big deal." "Cool." He nods at me, but he's blushing and now he's going to be more careful of what he asks. I start working down his left arm, soaping every fat muscle that curves into the next fat muscle as I go. He puts his head back and moans softly, these soft circles I'm dancing around him, curving strokes and traced ovals from forearm to bicep and back. When I do his fingers, he twitches and his toes jerk, remembering earlier and forgetting they aren't all still connected. Well...they are still connected. But not with white twine. We're quiet during this, well, except for Fitch groans and Fitch sighs and little splashes of water when his legs jerk, especially when I stroke his neck. When I go below water to suds his nuts he jumps out of the water vertically, cartoon-style. "They're sensitive!" he hisses at me. Yeah, Fitch. I remember. I was there. But I manage to get his legs rubbed clean, his toes too. I luxuriously saw my index finger between each toe. Fitch holds his big fists over his eyes the entire time swearing softly. I considered myself lucky to not get kicked across the bathroom. The bathing is over and he's resting in my arms. An entire evening is floating between us as I rub behind his ears, to make sure the soap is gone. Slow, deep violin strokes, playing my Fitch into the last movement. "Tell me what happens with the lost kings." He says softly, dreamily. "What happens next." "There's nothing to tell," I murmur to him. "The story's over." He takes this in and sits up straight. "What?" he says with an edge to his voice. "That's it? That's the whole story?" "Yup." Fitch tenses a little unwillingly. "Seriously - that's it? They don't get found?" I pull him down again, rubbing his newly tightened muscles with slow, soothing strokes, massaging him with strong thumbs and calming him with my every intention. "Didn't I tell you it was a story about lost kings?" I ask casually. "So yeah, they're lost. I mean, sure, some of them probably get found...once in a while." "What about the Vladimir guy?" he asks, almost angrily. I shake my head. "Nobody knows. Was reportedly wandering around Europe, but nobody really knows. He'd be in disguise, probably, so nobody would recognize him physically." Fitch takes this in and his jaw is locked. "Your story sucks." He says bluntly. "This king story just blows." "One detail," I interrupt him. "they got from King Andrew, the Singer of Souls was about how the kings were stubborn in their hiding. King Andrew remembered that he himself hid as the manager of an accounting department for a mid-level corporation, focusing on and worshipping numbers because it was too painful to remember his gift of music. They disguised themselves well." "I don't believe you." Fitch growls. "All fucking night with these kings and all their names. Do you know I was trying to fucking memorize them? The Finder of Beauty, the guy who restores guys, the big black dude named Malcolm and then there's that crap about the dawn - " "Sssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..." I whisper into his mouth. He snaps his mouth shut and his body is tighter than a moment before. He's not going to storm out of the bathroom but he definitely feels misled. "Hey," I offer him, cheerfully. "The found, awakened kings developed a secret handshake to greet each other in the world without kings. Did I mention that?" "Forget it." He says, pouting. "I don't give a fuck." "Fitch." I whisper to him in a strong, seductive voice. His body responds instantly, a little electricity. He's irritated. It's just a stupid story, but still. On the other hand, his options for relieving his mighty blue balls and the fat dick head poking above the water's surface are much pretty limited to the hairy mechanic with love handles who happens to be sitting naked in front of him. Plus, there was the part with the peanut noodles, so there's that. That's a redeeming point in my favor. I kiss his face just in front of his left ear, so he can hear the exquisite sound, the delicate brush of my lips to his stubbly face. The Fitch Dick hears it. Hears it just fine. I kiss along his jawbone and use just a little tongue so it's fresh and wet. And this is the moment he wanted a little while ago. I kiss his chin and his lips part and a new sound emerges, a cross between a moan and a sigh come out. I breathe into Fitch's mouth until our body heat changes a bit and his shoulders relax a little more. And then I clasp my lips onto his juicy bottom one. Fitch's whole body jumps, splashes heavily. I extend the kiss longer than is necessary, but I like seeing him writhe. When we come up for air, Fitch's eyes are vulnerable and wide, despite the fact that there's still drips of water splorking onto his face from his wet, golden and pointy locks. We kiss again and then again. Fitch's hands go to my head to lock me in, but I arrest his wrists midway to their destination and return his them to his side. He barely notices and we continue kissing, his tongue daring into my mouth only to find itself captured and trapped for an impressively long time . "OHHH..." he gasps when set him free. "OH GOD." I rise and half-pull him to his feet. He's stumbling again, and maybe it's just standing in the wet tub, but it seems his drunkenness returned. He's panting, out of breath, while I'm just fine. His eyes are hazy, but they're trying to get clear, like a drunk does on the back porch trying to breathe in fresh air before leaving the party. Sorry Fitch, just like the party drunk, fresh air ain't going to sober you up. He points to a fat dry towel, white on the wall and I whisper, "As you wish." This pains him again and he doesn't know why. I dry him with long soft strokes, and he has time to consider the confusing emotions running rampant through him, but I doubt that he makes the connections. Sees what I have done. When I'm quickly dried myself, I take his hand and lead him to the bedroom and Fitch is happy/sad again. It's an average room in a 1920s craftsman style bungalo, gorgeous woodwork and hardwood floors, but the iron-framed bed is large and there are emerald satin sheets flashing hello. A dozen candles lighting our way, window sills and on the dresser. On one pillow there are two white roses, crossed over the vines as if they themselves just got done fucking. They're from a white vase with white roses on a table near the bed with more glittering candles. Fitch is beginning to glow, his whole body vibrating on this frequency because for him somehow this is perfect, this thing. It's happening. It's beginning. He doesn't know what it is, but yeah. He's ready. Well, maybe not. No go ahead, bring it on. Maybe. No...wait! Fitch looks confused. I switch the music to this Indian group named Kali, their wet thrusting beat and sensual melodies a gift from a St. Louis king I once met named Samiir. Geez, talk about good cocksuckers. It's hypnotic, Kali's sound, thrusting, pounding, and suggestive of far-away kingdoms. I guide Fitch to the bed, and lay him face down. He falls heavily onto the shiny surface, instantly exploding the sheets into long creases, candle light reflecting off a dozen new planes of shadow and half-illumination. His entire body twitches. Fitch bounces and pushes back, a fraction, a lot, his knees crunch the satin and each caressing sensation that's created on his skin when he moves is probably like a tongue four feet wide. He can't move without making it worse, more unbearable, more intense. Good. I gently caress the side of his face and his face melts, pushing a little more towards me. Submission. He gets it now, what gift he has to offer tonight. He gets it. I trail my fingers over his bulging shoulders and down his spine, just lightly enough that it feels like breeze. He spasms uncontrollably and now all those crazy muscles come in handy because he can use them to jiggle and flex and unflex, each hyper-developed neuron super-charged already in delivering the news to their muscle neighbors. Then I arrive at his butt. Did I describe his ass? I don't think I did. Huh. Well, it's muscle, as expected, fat melons and they're not ripe, they're hard like cantaloupe a month before harvest. When he unclenches they're soft pillows of flour-white because, oh yes, while Fitch tans his whole body, his ass globes are regulation ghostly white. Abercrombie & Fitch would want it just like this. They would be proud. Right now, his ass is tense and so cantaloupe-hard. Maybe that's because I'm breathing warm air right against those ghost cheeks. I freeze right there and he figures it out quickly: if he WANTS me to lick his ass, he's gotta unclench. So reluctantly, he does. I run my goatee over each cheek slowly, creating this fluttering of clenching/unclenching once again and I can hear him swear softly. Then I rub my chin up and down the perfect muscle canyon between the two ass globes and Fitch has no idea how tightly bound this area is to his poor, abused cock. His muscles start twitching in his cock as if he were trying to cum but nothing is happening. When I actually kiss that ass-crack with wet lips, a sizzling hiss leaves his mouth and he jumps against the satin, another overwhelming sensation. That's when I dive in. I let my fat wet tongue slobber right over his pink, winking hole and Fitch yells a 'Chriiiiiiiiiiissssst!" that is somehow both blasphemous and reverential. He settles back down a second later, panting, panting. I dive in again. I use long wet strokes at first, up and down his full crack and he moans deeply. Then I use short nippy little strokes like a Yorkshire Terrier. Fitch gasps during these Terrier nips, their surprise and intensity unnerving what little nerve he has left. When I think he can't stand it anymore, the satin zipping along his skin and my deep penetrating tongue, I bite his white butt, that carefully worked muscle before it tenses up, leaving a ring of teeth marks that may be awkward for Fitch the next time he's at the gym. And for a while there's only the sound of Fitch's skin scraping satin, my wet gurgling dives, and the high-pitched chanting of a techno-beat dedicated to Ganesha. When I feel his fuller submission, that next letting go, we're done. Now, we've got about an hour to fuck. Maybe a little less, depending on how ready he is, how desperate he is. I suppose it's possible if I tease him much longer than an hour, Fitch may wrap his well-used hands around my neck and then I really will regret that I picked a guy with this much muscle. Sheeeesh. That would suck. He's got to be on his back first, so we can make eye contact as I enter him, so I turn him over. "C'mere," he growls at me, but his eyes are pleading. "C'mon, don't be a dick." He whimpers and he's using that tone to hide the fact that this is begging. He is begging for me to kiss him. Fitch doesn't beg. But this time...please, please let me feel your lips. "As you wish." I tell him, steeling my eyes into his. "Quit saying that!" he cries and his mighty paw wraps around my neck and drags me to his face where he shows me what he's got. He's a good kisser, my Fitch. He's got well-practiced lips, sensitive and strong, a tongue that knows the goal isn't to stab me to death, and he's advanced enough to know that just kissing in your own favorite style isn't necessarily the way to find each other. He's growling into me, throaty sounds that vibrate our mouths and he keeps twitching his ass against my hard and slobbery cock, trying to make me get inside him. C'mon...his ass keeps saying. Quit fuckin' around and get it done. I break our latest kiss and he's panting, gasping, eyes are angry, confused, hungry. Nope. He's not gonna last an hour. I'll save the long fucking for tomorrow. "Yer gonna cum in me, right?" he looks into my eyes angrily because me saying 'no' is not an option he can handle right now. I scrunch my ass-juiced and Fitch-slobbery face. "Are you sure that's the tone you want to use?" He crumbles instantly. "Please." He submits again. "Please man, please...it would be perfect if you did this." "Did what?" I ask him with feigned innocence. Fitch is far beyond blushing and he's so worried that this might be a game with me - that I don't take this seriously like he does - and so I might deny him just to amuse myself. "Please cum inside me, man. I really need - I would really like it, Sir, if you would put your babies inside me, so I can please, oh please feel you that way. I would love it. Sir." He's groveling and that sensation is at war with the other growing sensations in him, the ones that keep expanding, like love and compassion and wonder and other things that don't have names, just colorful shades of emotions he forgot were buried there. But he's still angry and confused and fearful he may not get what he want, even though his heart is breaking open with love for me and yet he didn't see it coming on, not this strong. Not like this. "Please," he repeats and I think his eyes are watering. "I need it, man. I need your sperm. I really fuckin' need it tonight and I am full-on begging you, Sir, to please give me this one thing and I will do anything, I swear to god, I will do it." I open my mouth and begin to nod. "But please to God, please don't say that 'as you wish,'" he interrupts me and the tears are real even if they're not ready to leave his eyes just yet. I nod and this is the same as the words, so Fitch groans with this, another piercing dagger. He still doesn't quite see it. He feels it. But he doesn't see it. The magic note, delivered in a golden beer bottle. Surprise encounters and cryptic revelations, inner truths revealed in mystical nightclubs. The warrior fierceness in eye and in voice, the regimented orders, full submission and the dawn of trust, the orgasmic grid done up in twine, a warrior's favorite toy. A Mom who defiantly holds out two bowls and says, 'put more chili in this one' because it's for the daughter grasping her leg. Joyfully recalling a lost childhood through a peanut-paste-smeared face, another life perhaps where perhaps you were someone wonderful. Mango sticky rice, the feast of lovers. It's all swirling around. The satin sheets, a generous River, the roof and turrets of a modern day castle. A thousand stars shimmering against the midnight field. The deliciousness of simple noodles, Greg's sparkling salmon shirt, bathing in an enchanted forest lit by firefly candles, the Fitch Men, those ghostly conquests standing in the sacred circle watching him sag under the weight of their forgotten names, a security guard who sheds his skin to reveal flaming plum curls licking a lavender sky. A 28 year old unnaturally aged by dark magic wearing the hands of an old man. The nerve-shattering orgasm induced by a single word, a magic spell. He doesn't see how they're intertwined, interwoven. But he feels it. It's a fairy tale. And despite the fact that the digital clock reads 3: 45 a.m., it's symbolically 11:59 and the stroke of midnight is seconds away. All this story needs as a centerpiece is a king. We groan in twin when I enter his ass, all of me in one slow and steady stroke. I'm not hung huge but his ass has been ready since he showed up this afternoon snapping open and shut as he clenched with expectation for the next task ahead of him and then unclenched when it turned out he could handle it. All that opening and grinding has mellowed him immensely and it probably helps that every nerve ending in his dick is pulsating with rage that feels like exploding. Fitch is ready. Warm. Pulsating from the center of him. I take him slowly, pulling all the way out until his ass lips are just barely kissing the tip of my precummy dick and then slowly swooshing him s so fully it would seem I'm fucking into his neck because it fills out and shudders with every stroke. We're like this a while and he's finding the groove. I hold his legs sometimes, wrap them around me sometimes when hard strokes are needed. He holds them when he's worried I'm not deep enough, which luckily is only at first. I know how to fuck ass. I hit the sides, the well-ignored spots, which aren't hard to find because Fitch is a top. In fact, his ass isn't seasoned terribly much and I can't think why I thought he could last a full hour. Already he's tense and straining while completely relaxed, that amazing paradox that is so much fun to watch in a bottom. Kings love paradox. I scrape the sides of him and his mouth gurgles out bubbles which I kiss away and he launches himself onto my face with renewed vigor. I pull out, which he loudly protests, but after I start turning him onto his stomach, he slides into position, the hunter and light green shadows in the satin sheets vanishing and elongating as he cinches his hands into them. The sheets must be torture for his body, his skin, his angry cock. I poke around his asshole with the head of my enraged dick, poking the folds and just inside the rim. "Oh god!" he cries and his ass starts moving in small circles. My spit is all over it, a few bite marks as well. While I was eating his ass, I had to get him to tense and release a few times and gentle chewing on the meat of his ass did the trick before I dove back into his pink little bud. "Please," he almost weeps, and so I poke in sideways which causes him to jump and readjust but not before I can slime the side of his ass walls with a little more precum. Don't worry Fitch, you'll get every drop. I fuck him on his stomach for a while, my favorite position. I turn his head and we swap deep kisses while I continue to stroke the inside of his body and he continues to arch his ass to me, re-inviting me to take ownership at the end of every stroke. We're clamped in a kiss and I push in as deep as I can get holding hard against his upper body and his dick twitches hard against the satin, furious at being so quickly forgotten, especially after the treatment on the roof. After only ten minutes, I flip him over onto his back and his eyes are telling me, 'Aw for fuck's sake, you're wasting precious time where you could be inside me!' Yup. It's time. I jab him quickly with fast hard strokes and his eyes light up because Fuck Yeah, this is What We Were Meant To Do. I am knocking hard on the orgasm's door and it's racing down the stairs to make it in time. "It seems," I pause, my cock hard and ready to nut, his prostate still feeling after-shocks. "To answer your earlier question, there was a bit more to the story of the lost kings. I almost forgot. It's been so long since his last reported sighting." "WHAT?" Fitch is baffled once again by my return to the story. "NOW?" He has no idea how close he is to the story's resolution matching his enormous, body-wrenching orgasm. The orgasm that changes him. How the story...all night...was about him. "Somewhere, somewhen, King Vladimir Vitchnokker was spotted again, perhaps in a museum or rifling through a dumpster looking for patterns. Europe, the way I heard it. Back when he was in the kingdom, you could never tell if he was going to show you the exquisite, rare emerald flower or hold up a furry sloth and invite you to consider its elegant tail. He found beauty everywhere." "No," Fitch whispers as I begin to fuck him again. His eyes are begging me, wide, because he can't bear it anymore. He's afraid I'm going to stop talking. "Tell the story...tell it dude..." "As you wish." I tell him and he flinches, twists, as if the words had scalded him. "But as a lost king who wished to stay forgotten, Vladimir did his best to hide himself from anyone trying to draw him out. He did what was correct and proper and kept himself with stylish hair. They say he got his teeth fixed so no one would look at him funny and wonder who he truly might be. And cosmetic surgery because compassion towards his horrible face was the gateway for him into seeing someone else's beauty. So he made himself handsome, a perfect disguise for someone who both loves and hates beauty." Fitch clamps around my cock and snaps his head hard to the right. He's grinding my cock and fighting it, fighting it. Maybe he can stop this - fight this off if he just doesn't cum. Oh Fitch...it's way too late to fight this. I've been under the hood all night tinkering around, tweaking your other muscles, the ones you ignored. Making you fixed. Many hours ago, before we left the house for Fr. River's turkey chili, Fitch made an erroneous assumption. As he lay panting and jerking on my hardwood floor, Fitch assumed that I had stopped binding him in the orgasmic grid. That after I yanked the twine off his wrists and he collapsed, that he was free. You were never free, Fitch. I just stopped using twine to bind you. He didn't pay attention to the exact moment because I had distracted him, the intense intimacy between us vibrating when I started twining his body and his soul with sparkling energy. He stopped paying attention, but then again to be fair, he was busy cumming his brains out and didn't see me holding him in my arms whispering king love into him, pink and orange sparks wrapping around his heart. I was slowly and carefully wrapping his heart to his soul. A trademark of a lost king: he thinks the physical world is the only one. He forgets about energy, about the power of those kings who remember their true nature. With twine, I had tied his fingers and toes, linking his body to every other part of itself, so that he was feeling it all at once. But later, while I bathed him in a candlelit forest surrounded by white roses, his brain and soul and cock and heart compared notes for the first time in many hours and started whispering to each other that something strange was happening: each in their respective domains was getting bound tighter and tighter, snapping synapses sharper and harder as if for some sort of distant overload. And all this had been happening for many hours. Fitch couldn't express that he understood he was being bound in the energetic twine that links us all. Maybe he never viewed life that way. He certainly didn't have the vocabulary. But he could feel it and it frightened him. Made him sad for reasons he did not understand. His true nature was beginning to dawn, and he hated remembering. They always do. Every time I said 'As you wish...'with masculine deference, it was a painful reminder, a stabbing accusation, that once you were someone greater...and look at how you live like a pauper now. He even fought it, showed anger and fear at being caught up in something he didn't know, something bigger. That's another trademark of a lost king: resisting right to the very fucking point of no return. "I wouldn't worry if I were you," I am glaring at him, pounding him with love and he will not escape this. He will not deny this. "The lost King Vladimir trying to stay hidden would look nothing like you with your peanut-smeared face, noodles in your hair, and then laughing, loudly, naked under the stars while your cock got sucked." Fitch's cock is vibrating and raw, and honest to god, I wasn't kidding when I said he won't masturbate for the next week. The Fitch Dick is raised to its regal height, 9 lumbering inches of drunk and staggering cock. It's purple crown is engorged, the king is in full glory. It's the one part of Fitch who always remembered who he was. Why do you think Fitch followed its every command? And now, the Fitch Dick is furious. Ignored for the moment, that giant cock vows it'll show us - it'll show us all. You're gonna see me blow in just a few seconds. And then you'll understand power. "A lost king trying to keep hidden would never serve homeless people shitty leftover food as it gets dark, watching them shuffle away. So he couldn't be you..." "Don't." he gasps and all of his body has already begun the orgasm. The words are just striking a match against the fuse that's already sizzling. "Then again..." I fuck him deeper and his eyes pop open, pleading. He can't take any more. Seriously. "Nobody really called him King Vladimir. No, just the history books and papers presented at conferences. After all, there were six Vladimir's in the tribe of All Kings, so that just would be confusing." "Oh God..." he shrieks. He twitches his head against the shiny, minty pillow case and spit flies out of his mouth. "No," I say louder and with authority, my voice commanding his body, his very brain. I need him to hear this. "Everybody just called him King Vitchnokker. But after a while, even that was cumbersome, so they called him Vitch. For short. King Vitch. A sound comes out. His eyes are filled and there's more coming. He finally sees where this is going. I am fucking him harder and harder and his ass is kinda hurting my pelvis because he's all that muscle, and I'm, well, not. His whole body is choking, shaking, and his eyes are the last to realize it, to see his whole body exploding, cringing, expanding, exploding... "Of course, the translation got altered in Sweden..." His eyes burst open. A lone tear pours out, a harbinger. I fucking knew it - Fitch is Swedish. I'm giving him my best jabs now, nailing his prostrate as hard as I can. "THEY JUST CALLED HIM...KING...FITCH." The flood gate is broken. The first arc of his enormous splattering load flies through the air between us and nails his forehead, and beyond, splattering down his cheek and a fat stream ending up inside his mouth, this enormous, cavernous O. His green eyes are more white than emerald at this moment, the surprise engulfing everything. Everything happens in silence, the O, the first arc, and then sound explodes everywhere. Fitch bawls, eyes wide. He is howling and every bit of him is howling, every cell giving up its normal duties to contribute to the sound. Arc after spoogy arc splatter against his neck, his chest, five arcs of cum and he's still nailing his upper pec. "KING FITCH!" I scream at him, right there myself. "KING FITCH!" Fitch is doubling the load he came from yesterday afternoon, trapped and wriggling in the physical orgasmic grid. Yup, probably twice as much, and that Friday afternoon load was not what I would call 'small.' Each time he clamps his ass to force out the long-awaited sperm, he jacks my dick, which means his ass is in super clamp mode and my cock digs this brutal handshake, and responds by spitting furiously at everything near and damp. He can feel me cumming inside him and Fitch dog-howls and another arc hits his neck. Really, it's quite impressive. I don't cum that much and I usually flood quite a bit. I am spitting inside of Fitch, shooting and shooting, and I'm getting concerned about him snapping off my cock right at the base if he doesn't unclasp. His masculine scream is raw and prolonged, trapped so long inside him, that this imprisoned sound is making the most of this rare opportunity. I grab his rigid left hand and flip it face up, the meaty part under the thumb exposed, angled up top. "My king, my king." I say loudly and lovingly, kissing him there. Greg and Ray weren't speaking Chinese; Fitch just wasn't listening. "My king." I say again, kissing him gently. Still fucking him. I will show him my love. I will show him all my love. Suddenly everything in him returns to its normal function and he collapses and Fitch sobs, big heaving sobs and I'm in his arms pulling him to my chest as he cries with two fists pushing me away while the rest of his body cobras me, refusing distance. He believes, he believes. And that's what hurts the worst of all. That it's true. He knows in his heart that he's one of the missing kings. We all are. All men. All of us, lost and forgotten waiting for someone to recognize us on the street and say, 'Hey - aren't you someone special?' He cries, he cries. Like a kid and like an old, tired man who sleeps under bridges. It's hard to be a lost king. It must be at least 15 minutes before his last tears silently depart and another 5 minutes of just coming back to his own body. We breathe in unison now, my arms holding him against my chest with enough pressure so that he knows he's not alone...he's not alone. "Oh god." He says weakly, drained and exhausted. His cum is still wet but turned cool and we're bathed in it. He chuckles dryly. "I really want a corn dog right now. I don't know why. But that sounds really good right now." "As you wish, my king." I reply quietly, beginning to rise. "No." he commands and pulls me down, pulls me into his warmth. He wraps his arms around me and nuzzles into my neck. His voice is quietly strong. "Stay here. I don't need anything." Within another full five minutes he's asleep and snoring. Well, he's earned it. I extricate myself smoothly. I don't like leaving him alone; I don't want him to wake up and not find me near him, holding him. But I can't risk falling asleep myself. Big plans, big plans for us. And Fitch is so completely dead to the world that there's not much danger of him waking. I take a moment to look at him spread eagle on the minty, satin sheets. It's a pin-up poster moment, the sculpted perfect body in deep slumber. The perfect creases on the shiny satin clasped tightly in each of his strong hands. His ass is parted gently and I can see a thick stream of my cum already slow-dripping down his nut sack. Yum. I turn and leave the room. Most everything is set up for the next stage. It's 4:25 a.m. I'll let him sleep for a half hour or so. I get myself a can of Cherry Coke, blow out the candles in the bathroom, and paddle around the house naked. I think about disassembling the 100-candle-circle but who knows, we may need it tomorrow. We'll see. So instead, I check email. By the late night glow of the computer, I discover a few new ones, including one from Mr. Persistence in New Jersey. The guy's name is Mark and he's arguing how 19 is quite old enough to make very adult decisions and that I am an 'ageist' for not even considering the possibility that... I finish reading the email. He has attached his face pic again and he's really quite handsome. He's frowning at the camera, mouth parted. Beautiful full lips. The sun is behind him, creating a halo effect on his chocolate, dark hair. He's got dark eyebrows and this regal bearing about him and even though he's 19, he looks older. His eyes are golden brown and sharp and I get the impression from just his photo that he's smart. Sometimes even a photo reveals that. I reread this Mark's words again, and truly consider his well-reasoned arguments and his passion. The fact that he's in New Jersey doesn't bother me. I would go anywhere to retrieve a lost king, even a virgin king. He definitely seems to know exactly what he wants. But in the end, I delete the email. He's just too young. I read a few others, respond to my older brother's demand to know if I'm visiting Chicago anytime soon or WTF? I chuckle and write him a growly reply. It a few minutes it will be time to wake the king. Tomorrow has already arrived. **** Feedback welcome and appreciated. mpls_ted@yahoo.com