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A whip-crack. Then you. Scuttling, crabwise, for the furthermost corner. Tonight, we play at love's games. One tailored to our taut, well-oiled, black hides. I call it "Harder." It could be said that it is childlike in its simplicity. It could be if one were an amnesiac, forgetful of just who needs cunning most to survive. Still, it is true that it is a simple game. There is only one rule, stolen unrepentantly from a textbook of Newtonian psychics. For every action, there is an opposite, equal reaction. Already, I have lied. My reaction is never equal. It is—as long as I love you—exponential. You will call out; and I will reply—harder. I lay down the whip's tip at your knees. Twice. You do not flinch. Your chest swells and your jaw tightens. You no longer crouch; you kneel. If you sweat, it flows unseen down your spine into the warm, dark crevice of your ass. I sidewind the long leather braid before you. It roils rattleless on the floor. Then, the black serpent arcs and strikes at your right nipple. You shriek—staccato, soprano notes—like a boy twenty years younger. Your legs splay and you flop onto the backs of your calves, your bare ass kissing the floor.
I fight the curling of my lips. I swallow a hiccup of laughter. I have caught my prize-winning leather boy unawares. The whip bites again, just above the silver glint of your left tit. Now, on cue, in character, you bellow like a bull pounding the haunches of its staggering mate.
I watch silently, bemused and slightly aroused. By not prefacing the pain with our standard scales of blows and curses, I have made it new again for us both. This enchants me. My prick thickens alone in the chrome cocoon of my codpiece. This enkindles me. I have decided it will swagger well outside the reach of all your wet lips tonight. Instead, I will surprise you and surprise you and surprise you until you break. This enraptures me.
The reddening welts on your chest fashion an arrow that directs my gaze downward through the latticework of your abs to your crotch. Your cock strains against the threadbare jock, dyed a light shade of saffron from soaking so many nights in our bitter beer piss and flecked brown and black with old stains of come and blood. I drop the single tail and reach for the crop. I must make tender what is so stiff.
I approach, my leathers crackling with each footfall, my boots crunching softly on the grit of the basement's concrete floor as if it were newfallen snow. The cables of muscle that anchor your shoulders to your neck quiver. The delicacy of this motion belies their bulk.
Your eyes meet mine. They are the color of wet stone in this room's dim light. They ask to speak on your behalf. They accuse. They cajole. They beg. It is a sight no less dramatic than the processional of old mothers with skins like weathered tarps who crawl a mile on their brittle, arthritic knees to the Shrine of Our Lady. It would be a moving sight if I were compassionate like Mother Mary. But I am not. I have become like Our Father. You remember Him, brother seminarian. You remember how we prayed to Him for hours together in my cell. How we suffered in agony, abandoned into His Almighty Silence. How His cold quiet drove first me, and then you, out into this new wilderness. Naked and afraid.
There is something about the pleading in your eyes that keeps my gaze. I have never seen such fervency except in the clenched faces of the old women who lined the marriagebed or the deathbed when I'd assist Father Bernard with the blessing of it, the blessing of them. And, at that moment, I realize that you still pray. Despite all He has done to us. Despite all I have done to you. You still have faith in us both.
Again, you have surprised me tonight. So, again, I must surprise you. I will intercede and answer your prayer. I will be Your Father. I will take you up into my shadow.
The back of my hand slams into the raspy stubble of your check and the unyielding bone of your jaw. You have forced me to speak. So I remind you that our love will never be equal for the simple reason that you are not my equal. And yet, I go on to tell you, I have, in my mysterious way, chosen to love you. You lower your head and ask my forgiveness.
I tuck the crop into the wet fold of my armpit. I reach into my right boot and withdraw my buck knife. I push down onto the back of your neck with my other hand. You bow before me. I lean across you and, with one stroke, slice the waistband of the jock in two.
I put the knife away and retrieve the now shining crop. I look down on your broad bent back. Your clear skin, stretched across the blocks of muscle, is so beautiful I want to open it up. Instead, I place the tip of my spit-shellacked boot beneath your chin and lift it and then you onto your ass. I bend my knees until we are almost eye-level. I yank the remnants of fabric away from your groin. Your dick and balls leap out, either to defend or invite attack. I stuff the wad of reeking cotton into your mouth. I have never gagged you before. Unasked, you look up at me.
Some would attribute this act of defiance to the folly of youth—a boy's mistaken belief that he is a man when he is not. They might laugh it off. Or shrug their shoulders and roll their eyes. I am not one of these people.
I kick the steel toe of my boot between your legs, beneath your balls. You cough out the jock. You are choked by lamentations. With infinite grace, I press the sole of my other boot into your crotch until I meet the resistance of the metal cockring and your pubic bone. I twist my foot hard to the right. You yelp. I grind it back to the left—harder. You moan. I tap with the crop at the edges of your reddening cock and balls, whatever is not crushed in my impromptu vice grip; for a brief moment, I am reminded of our other life together and I see this morning's burning overflow of batter around the mouth of the waffle iron.
The head of your dick juts out at an odd angle. It is the hue of a newly baked brick. I swat it lightly several times. Then I take a single whistling stroke at the underside of your most exposed egg. Your head lurches backwards and I watch calmly as you gnash your teeth. Before our game concludes, I hope to have made you grind all that professionally bleached enamel down to a fine powder until it cakes in your mouth and stains your lips a deathly shade of white.
I lift up my left foot in an act of mercy. You are unworthy. But how else can I hit the swollen shaft of your dick? It stiffens under the blows until it points heavenwards like two hands pressed together in a solemn show of piety. You, however, no longer pray piously to me, your new Father who art on earth before you. Your lips contort and spit out curse after curse. Each more outlandish and impotent.
I think to strike your lips with this short fiberglass stick entwined in leather. But I want them unblemished. They are thick enough. Swollen, they are obscene and useless. For when we have played our game out to its lovely end, I will make you—because I love you—suck out whatever rancor remains in my thudding heart.
So, I slash instead at the lines the whip has burned into your skin. Across them. Up and down them. Each strike produces a note. At first, I am hellbent to hear your complete octave range. After the first arpeggio of groans, however, I am bored. I will have to work harder for that unmanly wailing.
I punch one of your pecs and you flail backwards. I hit the other and you topple forward. I tug what I can of your close-cropped hair. It is futile. My fingers slip through the wet stubble. I content myself by digging my fingernails into the edge of your left ear. I haul you across the uneven floor. You scream as you hobble on your knees behind me for I am scuffing and tearing your custom-made chaps. You had to take on that second, thankless job of editing yet another anthology to buy them. This is your first night to wear them.
We have come now to my own custom-made extravagance—a low-standing, wide-beamed sawhorse, swaddled in leather and studs. I lift you up by the tip of your ear. You are almost as tall as me. I press my chest into yours and back you into the end of the sawhorse. I pull away and your sweat turns cold on my skin. I plant my hand above the arroyo that runs between the two mesas of your breasts. I push you backwards. Your butt lands on the beam and your back arches as it descends. Your head hangs off the opposite edge. You will have to strain and lift your neck to see what I will do next.
I cuff your wrists and ankles to the horse's legs. I leave your body to adjust its new wounds and old aches to the awkwardness of this position, to the rigidity of the wood and leather. I return with an antique medical kit. I lean down towards your face. You expect a kiss or a curse. I blow the first gray layer of dust off the old bag. I watch to see if it powders your flushed face. There is too little of it. Instead, you cough.
I open the case and there sleep the pride and private joys of my long-dead mentor. Sounds. Sticks and twigs made of metal. Yet another forgotten medical practice, like cupping, like bloodletting, that can still bring more pain than it cures. I dislodge the smallest and thinnest one. I hold it up in the hopes its dull reflected light catches your eyes. You pull your head up and out of gravity's mouth. The veins in your neck and brow look like ropes threaded under the skin of a mansize marionette. You asked me once what these rods were for and I told you. You shook imperceptibly at my descriptions. In seconds, you were drowning in the undertow of those tidal forces, attraction and repulsion. Later that night, you questioned if we would ever play with them. Tonight, you will have your answer.
As I swab the sound, you recall that evening. I grab your rigid prick. It is redder than your face. It too is a patchwork of distended blood vessels the color of bruises. I tap the head of your cock with the hard metal. Only a two-year old can spit out more "No's" in one breath. I grip you all the tighter and slip the spikelet calmly into your piss slit. I must go slowly. I have no desire to bend or break your video-worthy dick. I must wait until each new convulsion subsides before I can slide it deeper. I counsel you to offer up the pain. You respond in Latin. I know this is no small feat for a boy born after Vatican II. I am impressed. Almost. But then I have always known that we share a love of ancient things. And nothing is more ancient than pain. When your cock resembles a freshly skinned animal, skewered and ready for the fire, I stop.
I reach for my softest flogger. It looks like hair on a rag doll and feels like felt. I slap your chest in a series of lazy eights. Each strike is less hard. You look dazed. The welts sting but all you feel is your cock throbbing around the indifferent metal rod. I swat your fat shaft with no more force than a horse in a treeless pasture at noon brushing flies off its backside. You howl. The restraints nearly snap. The sawhorse almost bucks you off. I swat your dick again. And again. Like that song says, I am killing you softly.
The wooden horse lurches sideways, away from me, in one strident scrape. My nerves are jangled and strung tight. I hate that nails-on-a-blackboard screech. I drop my flogger and retrieve the buck knife. I move towards you until I loom over your face. I deftly toss the knife from my right to my left hand. I strike your face with my free hand. Then, with even more grace, I lob the knife over your head and into my waiting, open hand.
You try to shake off the blow. Your eyes struggle to refocus. When they do, I watch them grow comically wide. I have raised the blade high over you chest and am poised for the fatal thrust. You scream, pathetically, for help much as I imagine little Issac must have on that lonely mountaintop. But, unlike Father Abraham, I have no god to sacrifice you to other than myself. Worse, your new god can not bring you back from the dead.
My hand and the knife drop to within a quarter inch of your quaking skin. You try desperately to hold still though we both know you want to flail about like a madman. I let the point hover above your skin. I drag it slowly through the air down towards your cock.
You scream again for help. You presume, manchild that you are, that you can read the thoughts of an adult. You thrash now with such fury that I know you have convinced yourself that I plan to separate you from your precious and sainted peter. I could if I were simpleminded enough to doubt that you are mine. But I know that you are. Besides, this god does not need such dramatic sacrifices. Only a little blood and I am content.
So I take your dick which is my dick and I tug the sound slowly out. I will not tear asunder what is mine. Once I let it fall to the floor with a loud metallic clang, you are awash with pain. You keep shouting that I have cut off your dick. Your voice climbs higher and higher until you shriek in tongues. Somewhere in my unconscious I understand your babblings. There alone dwells the tender spirit of my Holy Ghost.
I stand and watch your cock jerk back and forth. The silver ring will not release its chokehold. I steady your dick with my hand and push the tip of the knife against the head. It is just a nick. But this bulb, fattened by its own blood, its skin mottled with uneven reds and purples like a ripe nectarine, oozes its rubicund juices. The blade has had the first bite of your fruit. The second will be mine.
I lap at the cut. I taste the tang of metal, like corroded pipes. Then I suck in the whole head and drink deep. My tongue washes back and forth at that precarious point where the head meets the shaft. You stiffen. I push my lips down the length of you and bite. I release and slide up. I slip your cock in and out of my mouth like a piston while I twist your balls. Your dick can get no harder. I wait for your rupture and it comes. I swallow and swallow and swallow.
In the distance, I hear you crying: primal and mindless and wracking sobs. I am happy for this brief moment between more moments. With the blood and come of you, my lamb, I have been washed clean. I have been born anew.
My love for you only grows harder.
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