Fuck
Black.
Pitch.
Absence.
Chaos.
(A smile…)
Darkness.
Temptress.
Directionless.
Void.
(A touch…)
Life.
Light.
Fate.
Deliverance.
(A kiss…)
A moment, a feeling, taking in the electromagnetic wave patterns reverberating within the hollow absence as if basing its existence on the supposed reaction such a deliberation would result in. The hollow absence fleeting into the respite of time as the failings of the dimensions of reality crackle and collapse only to reassemble broken and shattered, worn into a tapestry of wonder and fulfillment, all the while hiding the sense of unease and doubt festering within the fabric like the rotting corpse of a living shell of an individual being.
The contact within this space. It’s intoxicating, the movement maddening seemingly burning a slow fire that simmers and broils producing a vapor of inexorable pleasure.
Skin on skin, a feeling like silk on skin…
No, not silk. Perhaps satin, or maybe cashmere, or pure cotton.
So soft, so fluffy…So…
Tender…
The color of the emotional spectrum radiating a myriad of hues and strands, so much so that the void of the expanse would echo with the pulsating glow that was so…
Ethereal.
Celestial.
Paracausal.
So lovely, so lovely…
Two masses floated in the center of the spectrum, within the center of the expanse, oblivious to the void surrounding it. Although various hues of color were everywhere, shining and streaking light and energy into the void, the masses were blank. They were monochrome. Yet, the energy of light that radiated from them in turn only strengthened these hues, until a sudden change in the echoes of time caused a shift within masses of articulation, causing colors to disappear, dissolving into a singular stretch of white that originated from what some would call Eternity. As the white shifted, the shapes of the two masses became clearer, until the blotchiness of their forms became evenly tempered.
If one looked closer, they could start to notice the irregular movement patterns of the two being hardly irregular at all. In fact they wore normal. To a glance, they seemed very much like cells, circling and encapsulating each other before reaching a form of cellular mitosis. Only they were not cells.
Actually, they were not even masses. In fact, they were bodies.
Two bodies.
Two human bodies, sharing physical intimacy in the deep of the void; in the absence of heart of dark space.
One body was lying down, its head turned upward, pointing its nose towards the blackness. The light emitted from it is too bright to accurately deduce who or what it is, but whoever it is, or whatever it is, there is one thing that is certain. The first body, this figure of light, is beautiful. The figure is also graceful, moving up and down, bobbing almost; their torso, neck, and back moving slowly and rhythmically, and yet not painfully, not angrily. Instead, it was more like taking and giving, than anything that could possibly be inferred.
Strumming along.
Strumming beyond.
Strumming.
Thrust.
Thoughts swam about like fish in the ocean. The words ebbing and floating in a continuum of subconscious appropriation seemed like the ever watchful gazes of sharks, silent, ever watching predators, waiting to devour the fantasies of the mind and replace them with the cold, undeniability that was truth. But what exactly was the truth in this chaotic pit of no discernible sense of logic?
It was like a coral reef of mixed emotions, but all the diversity and individuality in the world could not and would not drop the focus of that which was the motion of the present.
Thrust. Thoughts stretched abound.
This is so lovely, this is so wonderful.
Thrust. The feeling of pleasure sparked by the sudden realization of the simplest of ideas.
I don’t want to stop; I don’t want this to end.
Thrust. Something immeasurable was being awoken, something ancient, primitive. Carnal.
No. It won't stop. It won't end.
Thrust.
I don’t want it to end, I won't let it.
This void was as lifeless as the nonexistence within the plane of veil between veils. Like a door with no exit, a key with no hole. But even in this space between space--this, a place of emptiness buried so deep within the subconscious level of the universe--the light of the small figure was enough to illuminate even the most jagged and broken aspects of the subspace in which it resided alone of itself.
No. Not jagged, at least not here they weren’t. Perhaps broken.
No. Not broken, but if not... But.
But it was, it was in fact broken.
It was broken, it was alone, it was decrepit.
No.
It wasn’t.
It wasn’t alone. Not within this expanse.
The figure's eyes are closed, and their lips are parted. Puffs of vapor flowing from the lips as steam generated from the core stimulated the sweat and tears, slowly rose and fell with the tempo of the figure’s movements. A slow rising and falling followed on their chest: it was breathing, slow, laboring, fading.
Thrust.
Those lips, what wonderful lips, so lush, so delectable. Sweet like honey.
Thrust.
Those hands, small and fragile, they feel as if they'd break.
Thrust.
No, they won't. It won't happen. I won't let that happen.
Thrust.
God. Goddamn. I love these small hands.
The light from the figure dimmed a bit, and the shape and face became somewhat clear.
The figure was more than an ‘it’.
‘It’ was a she.
Suddenly there was a change in the movement, and the female’s light became brighter now, even brighter than ever. And at that, the movement was like a bond of solace; that is, until another figure, the second of the two, bent down to face her. Her skin shined immensely, making it hard to see her, until the two were face to face—and then they kissed: this figure, this secondary body, was a male. He was the darker of the two bodies, but like her, he too radiated power, and his light shone immensely enough; so much so that the lines and details along his body could be made out in perfect detail. They kissed for a long time, the female’s arms wrapped around the base of his neck, while the male’s arms tightly held her waist, his hands massaging and rubbing her back. As they kissed, the light had lessened in brightness, and then sight became somewhat clear.
Ba-thump.
I can hear it. I can hear the beating of her heart.
Ba-thump.
It's beating along with my own. It’s almost as if it wants me.
Ba-thump.
Good. That's real good. 'Cause I want it. I want her heart. I want it.
Ba-thump.
I want it.
A sudden flash of light erupted between them, flitting him in the face. He blinked, and for a moment, focused away from her and looked down towards the source.
A repetitive wave slow and ominous echoed in the silence between them as they beheld each other, the low frequency sound it made fluttering like the dying flaps of the wings of a butterfly. In the middle of her chest, there resided a glow that engulfed that portion of her, possibly even the source of her power. A long gash centered in the middle of her chest stretching inches apart. Small veins of opaque energy snaked through her chest along the lines seemingly drawn across her upper torso.
Further inside, there was a dimensional rift the size of a dinner plate spun at the pace of a snail counterclockwise. Mists of light and writhing tendrils of energy wafted from and around the female’s body, the rift itself hummed in unison with her heartbeat. It was like her very existence consisted of all creation itself wrapped inside the delicateness of her bodice, a physical cocoon of ephemerality waiting to be shed in the coming metamorphosis of newer, ever evolving life. Moreover, the energy itself was beyond verbal description. Yet, it felt ancient, patient, conscious, and ambivalent. Benevolent almost from an impressionable stance.
A galaxy lay in the center of the rift, the galaxy itself being of a barred spiral variation. But unlike any other known form, this galaxy had not one, but three bars. Along the ends of each bar, two spiral strands individually outstretched in their given direction. This irregularity was inexplicably incalculable that in many ways, it was like the universe itself has manifested this paradox in order to explore its own self self-contradictory nature. The spirals themselves appeared to be almost like an armillary sphere, but created in such a way that the galaxy itself comprised the sphere, while the stars and nebulae wove the rings and strands, with the dust and gas clouds that encircled and maintained the perpetual motion of the rift in permanent balance. In the center of this irregular galaxy, the core was of a hexagram design, with the points themselves in the shape of a compass star, or even the North Star. And this, coupled with the light enticed the male so much so that the more he stared at the celestial body pulsating in her chest, that without his knowledge, his left hand began to hover over the rift, proceeding to reach into it. As his hand hovered centimeters from the spire of light from the core, he heard a voice deep as the hidden veil echo in hear.
Take it.
He froze, unable to ascertain the voices point of origin, and it was in that brief pause that same time so did she. Or rather, she was the one frozen in time, and he was simply apprehensive.
Take it. Is this not what you desire?
Wh-- Who the fuck is this? Why--
Take it.
Do it, and all that is theirs shall belong to you.
I—I--
Ah, she moaned, and suddenly time resumed its consistency in pace. And with that, the man's thoughts on the loss of space were left unassumed and resumed his intimacy with the woman. A cold shiver lingered in his spine from the experience, but the sensation quickly melted away as he felt himself etching ever deeper into her being.
Here. Now.
Within. Without.
Always. Never.
Total. Impartial.
There they were: two figures lying against each other, limbs upon limbs, arms upon arms. They kissed and kissed and kissed: the male figure in darkness and the female figure in light, intimate in the most utmost of aspects, and yet individually separate in others. Moving in unison, one taking and one receiving, the two were not two, but neither were they two of two. They were one. And as one, they strove to release and absorb all that one could encompass: time, space, emotion, thought, and feeling.
Thrust.
Please, don't run away. Don't run away baby.
Thrust.
Please, baby. Let me give it to you.
Thrust.
Don’t be afraid of me, I won’t hurt you. Let me do you right.
Thrust.
I won’t hurt you, I could never hurt you. I promise baby.
Thrust.
I…
Thrust.
I love you.
Suddenly she arched her back and exhaled sharply, and he felt her quiver; she held him even more tightly, as she suddenly shivered when the level of ecstasy mixed with overwhelming pleasure from the change in pace, had begun to intoxicate the one that they became. It was like a drug, only it wasn't of the mind, nor the body—it was for the soul: the one they were was being stimulated by the union of all that they had been.
They’d become existence itself. Wrapped in the very fabric of the universe, they seemingly embodied that which was the wholeness of the paradoxical and paracausal spectrum of reality, folded in and upon itself. Each of them embodying that which upholds nearly every natural and material law.
The man was the darkness, and the female was the light.
A union of two opposing forces, similar in making, but different in conception.
“Shhh, it’s okay” cooed the Darker One, “I’m here. It’s alright.”
Thrust.
Yes, baby. That's it. Ease on it. Ease into who and what we are.
Thrust.
Don't shy away from it. You ain't gotta be afraid of me.
Thrust.
I'm here. And I want you.
A small voice echoed in the void, soft and almost impossible to hear. It was calling a word. A name. It was a name.
Keante….
Take it. Is this not what you desire?
Take it. Do it, and all that is their's shall belong to you.
Take it…
Suddenly.
Keante.
(Huh?)
A brief jolt of realization hit Keante like a brick. It was sudden and painless, like an extending shot from a lifelong distance, taking its meaningful time to encompass the entirety of its purpose and compress its complexity into one single direct hit.
It was the Darker One's name.
Keante.
My name…
Wait. But how? His inner voice whispered, how does she know my name?
How--
His thoughts were cut off as the female cupped his face with her soft, small hands and pulled him back into her embrace, resting his head on her chest. As he lay there, he heard her heartbeat, it was warm and feathery like a bird. Once again, all of his doubts and insecurities washed away, and he looked up at her. Her eyes were mesmerizing, and in that instance his instincts kicked in, and then he kissed her. They kissed for a long time, each letting go and holding on. And with each time, growing more and more into one being, they began to know each other. Keante knew her, and she knew him, and they knew what they knew: and what they knew was each other. She arched again, and this time it was more livid. Keante was as well; he could feel the shift in paradigm along with the contracting tension underneath.
There was only explanation. He found it. The spot. That sweet spot. Immediately acting on it, Keante moved and did it again, and she in response arched again—yup, he'd definitely found it, and with that the hunger resurface. A sudden itch once a simple small nick, that grew into an obsession. A surge of power at the sight of her helplessness made him insatiably addicted. She trembled, still cupping his head and his back, and felt weightless as Keante cupped her thighs and cheeks and continued to dig.
Thrust. His nose flared, and steamed with each exhale, every inhalation of her pheromones sending his body into overdrive.
Thrust. His muscle began to grow, decimal-by-decimal as his strength skyrocketed wrapped in her body,
Thrust. His mouth began to drool, and his tongue began licking her exposed breast, driving her even more rigged as he tickled and fondled, prodded and jiggled.
Damn, this bitch light as fuck, he thought, she’s completely broken. And she’s all mine.
Thrust.
He was right.
She was seemingly weightless against him, and even with no walls or ground to stand on or press against, her weight was unusually minimal so as to cause little to no discomfort. Keante held onto her tightly, and knew deep in his core, that he refused to let go. Back and forth, they continued to move and explore each other. Slowly and surely, but then as they kissed, a buzz vibrated between them.
Ah, he sighed tensely.
And then he felt it. That sweet puckering of the flesh. The huffing of veins and tendons as a blast of energy snaked through him and gave him a burst of adrenaline from his head to feet. The length of the travel throbbing and intoxicating the body as fluids and secreting glands came together and burned in an ecstasy that only meant one thing: his climax was close.
"Fuck", he said quietly, "aww fuck babe."
Ending the brief pause, Keante began to quicken, as did she—only they never really moved, but were frozen in space. They moved against each other, the rhythm increasing in heat and in tempo, He was unable to stop as he licked and bit, sucked, and kissed her, and she unable to let go. She started shinning again, the light she emitted blanking out her shape, her outline. But that didn't faze him, and Keante refused to let go and continued digging.
Thrust.
Fuck this shit feels so good.
Thrust.
Damn, I can’t enough of this pussy, it keeps sucking me in.
Thrust.
My god, it’s eating me up, I don’t know if I can stop.
As his thoughts ran wild with animalistic fury, time stopped.
Meanwhile, her light dimmed until she became visible again, and as she did, the black and white scale of contrast made her more beautiful.
Only…
It wasn't a she that he was looking at.
In fact, it was never a she at all…
…
It was… a He.
Keante… Do not hesitate. Behold such a feckless monstrous creature.
So this is what you are? Or is this what you choose to be? No. This is who you are, and who you are is perfect alone in itself.
Keante…This boy is merely a child. A tool. A means to end. Desecrate his existence for your own gain.
I… don’t care. You may be this, but it does not matter...
Keante… This abomination, it is yours to control. Your slave to command. Let your dominance silence its identity. It is yours to ensnare.
I want you. I love you.
...
Keante. The Darker One.
Keante. The dreamer. The dream state.
Keante. The Master. The proprietor.
Keante. The Puppet. The unsuspecting.
But was that truly the reality of what was this existence in which they were both conjoined? Or, was this merely an illusion of the latter’s inner subconscious, playing and toying with the internal infirmities that made up the material construct that was his mind?
In the end, it did not matter.
At least, not now.
For in this instance, their thoughts hummed in unison as the last statement echoed within this subspace, vibrating at an equilibrium that only strengthened their resolve and merged their identities into a singular cohesive being.
He is a monster.
He is a tool. A means to an end.
He is a child.
Just look at him...
He was young, younger than Keante. He couldn’t more than 13 or 14 at the most. If Keante stood next to him, the boy would barely come up to his chest. He was so small. The boy was thinner than Keante, but there was something sexy about it, like it worked only for him. His eyes were closed, mouth half open, lips parted, taking in air like a steady marathon runner. And the whole time Keante looked down on him, he couldn’t help but feel that the child was beautiful in every aspect and definition of the word. Beautiful.
While his head was low, his features were faded out, almost in discernable in the light. The lack of color making it hard to see his hair, or other noteworthy details. Then the light grew brighter, and his features disappeared as he became a she once again. She lifted her head, and the two became parallel facing each other directly.
He looks so beautiful.
He looks so…
So. Real.
He opened his eyes, locking them with Keante’s own. They were two, but they were never two. They were one. And for a while, neither of them spoke, until he held his face and said softly whispered two words.
“Save me”, he said.
Wait. What?
The words caught him off-guard. Before he could reply he—
Grrraaahhhhwwwwrrrrr!
At that moment, a long bellow echoed in the void. It was young and filled with emotion, followed by a softer whimper. It took a second before Keante realized that it was coming himself. His climax had come, but it frightened him. The bellow itself, it wasn’t human!
It wasn’t even close to anything resembling a living human being; it was more like a roar than a yell. Like an animal. The roar deafened his ears and drowned out his faculties, and as he recovered, he looked back at the boy. The boy was crying, trembling immensely beneath him, his body misting and his eyes wide open.
Keante’s spine tingled with a hidden fear.
Those eyes. Those terrible, horrible eyes.
Keante could stare at them for an eternity and still become lost in their mystery.
Those eyes, those deep blue eyes.
Tears were streaking down his face, with a looked of painful resign.
“Babe”, he started concerned and worry written all over his face, “babe what’s wr—“
He was cut off mid-sentence, and would never get a chance to ask it again.
Foolish boy.
Now you shall see the truth in your folly.
Behold.
The world winked out of existence as a sudden burst of air slit the bond between them, and threw Keante away as the boy was pulled into deep space. Keante yelled, pulled into what seemed like a fiery oblivion before crashing through what looked like a glass ceiling and then a marble floor. The slam nearly broke his jaw and several bones, but the majority of the pain came from his back. Before he could react, Keante was ripped upright from the floor, and in a whirlwind was chained down and forced to look up through the broken ceiling as his love was dragged through all of creation into an unknown world.
Held down and kept from moving, Keante could only watch as the boy was jerked and shaken by an unseen force, like being thrown about by gravity itself. The boy remained in the air for what seemed like eternity, until finally breaking space before impact. The crater the boy should’ve made would’ve been massive, but instead he was smacked onto the ground like a ragdoll. The force of the impact was intense, and the area around the boy smoked and hissed, choking the air around him with thick dust and tendrils of darkness. He was weak, and tiny fires sprung up and dissipated around him. The boy’s bright light began to flicker, growing fainter and dimmer with each spurt. His light was fading. He lay there on a dirty back end of a walled off alley between two dumpsters and a series of overstuffed trashcans. There was no color, only black and white and gray. There were no clouds, but a calm wind that rustled the long thin braids that made up his hair. His fading light made his features easier to see. It was more than obvious she wasn’t a she, she was really a he.
And yet…
He felt so… right.
He lay down on the pavement, white light radiating from his skin against a blackish gray backdrop. The white that was once so bright it faded out his entire face, was now flickering and smudged with flecks of gray and faded puffs of black. His body still shone brightly, but not enough, leaving only the silhouette of his face and eyes visible. The sliver in his chest, the galaxy that resided in him was dying. The tendrils of darkness wafting in the alley began to snake the air before seeping into the nebulae and stars of the pocket universe, tainting and corrupting each microcosm as it slithered its way into his core. Until the sliver closed itself completely, but by then the darkness had already consumed much of the life within the boys chest, causing the skin around the sliver to crackle and putrefy with an oily blackness as the veins and arteries became corrupted as well.
The boy did nothing to stop them. He was still awake, still aware. His eyes were wide open and unflinching; unmoving.
His eyes…
Those eyes…
Those weren't normal eyes…
They were the only color on his face, shining like blue diamonds; they were rich and deep in color, dangerously enough they could consume the viewer if they wanted too. A large crackle howl reverberated from the around the alley, and thunder rumbled. A second later, lightning flashed in the sky, and white clouds appeared moving rapidly. The sky was a bright crimson, and the air smelled like blood.
Gasp!
It came from him. He started to sputter, his body shivered. The light emanating from him flicker again, dimmer than before. As it did, his upper torso became partly visible: white against fading black lines, outlining the soft, chiseled, toned details of his body. The body lay there, sprawled like an assault victim, an aura of blue vapor radiating from him; beyond him, the world around began to become distorted and chaotic. The air hummed and vibrated, the trash can shot up into the sky, the walls began to explode, the street cracked open. The body just lay there, slowly dying as the environment tore itself apart.
An inception buried under layers of the conscious and subconscious, intertwined by the very strings of fabric that wove the existence of this nightmarish dream.
Then the images appeared, fast and disjointed. Rapidly ascending into a tunnel vision of pure insanity.
The sound of glass breaking, cracking, and reassembling, and repeating, chimed like bottled pain to the ears. A plane flew into a tall building, followed by an explosion; only for the blast to stop and reverse into and reform a glass of black liquid falling onto a table. A young blonde with black lipstick and Marilyn Monroe hair, smoking a cigarette and blowing smoke rings looked at a mirror with no reflection, cackling hard enough the mirror cracked and then imploded as all sounds were instantaneously silenced by a gunshot blasting out like cannon fire.
The sound so loud it deafened everything.
A gun barrel smoked, attached to a pale hand of a shadowy figure with a snarling face. His eyes were obscured by the darkness of the shadows, leaving only the whiteness of his bare teeth to indicate the emotion radiating from him: Hatred.
A single word came from his lips...
Abomination!
A wrist was gripped gently and fearfully until the hand went limp. A white vase is imploded from within, shards of the stone edifice mixed with viscous black liquid stretching outwards slowly and menacingly until they froze in the air—until they then reversed melded together to form a massive sword made of opaque, black glass. The sword hung in the air blade downward, dripping red liquid from the tip of the blade into a running, flowing sea of pure, bright red...
The images changing and repeating faster and faster as wind whooshed past him, as he was still tied down and flying faster than the speed of sound and light. The velocity getting louder and louder; his stomach dropped, and his gut wrenched. The chains grew ever tighter, and the images zoomed by at blinding speed harder than anything he ever felt. And then in a split second before an explosion of light, the young one's face flashed a moment. His eyes were wide open and shined like crystals and his cheeks were ashy black. He was bruised and scratched, blood bright red dripping from his mouth, neck, cheeks, nose, and various cuts on his face. His breathing labored and heavy, he trembled and shook quietly and violently.
There were tears in his eyes.
Images of water steaming, boiling, condensing, and dripping sped up and reversed continuously choked the air with heat, fear, and sulfur, followed by a pale bald man clutching his head and screaming. Gasping and moaning, the young man arched his back up and coughed up a hock of dark blood, spluttering it and bubbling out of his mouth. The whooshing increased, the increase of the gravity weighing down on the chains kept the darker He fixed like cement while the pressure of 5000 tons weighed down on him, crushing and tightening. Suddenly the chains glowed bright red and smoke seeped from the pores in the iron, increasing in heat as the length strengthened. When it finally touched the darker one's skin, however, it did not hurt, nor was it painful, but the heat still was searing and constricting to the body. His muscles burned and his bones felt like twigs, cracking and bending under the power of its grip.
Suddenly, a long, slow flash blanked out the images immediately, reducing them to nothingness, snailing their momentum and erasing their value altogether. The flash intensified with each image erased, like a mental bleach of the past: a mental/psychological lobotomy.
The voice returned, louder and more foreboding. It words looked down upon the restrained Keante, and with a disgusted grin, these words sneered at him with no remorse. It words drove an animalistic fear into his heart, for he could sense the truth in them.
Beware the coming destruction.
Beware the eternal hunger.
All shall fall.
All shall be die.
And you shall be thy witness, you shall be the bedrock of my ascension.
Now. Watch as you sinful desire is consumed in the unholy union that is your greed and your lust.
Thundered crackled in the distance, and lightning pierced the sky above the boy. Keante shook and rocked, bucking and tossing himself furiously in an effort to extricate himself from the chains that held him. Pain, pity, and rage welled up inside him, so much so that it did not take long before he quiet struggling quickly gave way towards loud yelling and roaring. His shoulders steamed and hissed until finally exploding in flames and the profanities and obscenities of a sailor flew from his mouth until he instantly stopped.
The reason why presenting itself not longer after.
The flashes were slow at first, all the while zooming in on the body sprawled on the pavement.; by now, the alley has dissolved into nothingness thanks to the flashes, leaving the boy alone and dying. Keante once again tried to move, to at least reach out to him, but couldn't. He could only watch as each flash began erasing and wiping away the boy’s delicate bodice and disintegrating his visage. Then as the emptiness settled across the little boy’s face, his blank stare of pain became frozen in a sea of white void, the world began to darken and throb as black and red veins appeared all about.
Pain. Mind numbing, bone breaking, flesh tearing pain welled up inside of Keante. The pain was undeniable, unbearable just as the throbbing increased in beating, and in that last second before pure darkness, the boy opened his bloodied mouth, and Keante looked upon him for one final time.
He said two words, there echoes reverberating throughout the very core of this world.
“Save me”, he whispered.
Two words; two simple words. The sound of deafening rush of wind drowned all else.
And then...
Gaaahhh!
Terrified beyond comprehension, Keante bolted upright, throwing off the weariness of sleep in exchange for the bliss of pure panic. His hands shook tremendously, his legs felt numb, and he felt a shiver crawl along the length and entirety of his spine. His room was dark, dimly lit by the TV that flashed images of a lousy commercial at him. He looked to his right. The window was open, letting in a small breeze that felt abrasively cold to the touch of his skin. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, sounds of police sirens and cars driving by echoed in the neighborhood outside. A typical night in Los Angeles. Or rather, the part of Los Angeles in which he lived. He laid back down and turned over in bed, looking to his left to see the numbered clock shone with red numbers in the dark that surrounded it.
It was 2:15 a.m.
He grunted, both annoyed and visibly disturbed at the same time.
Immediately turning back to his original position, he felt wet and soggy underneath the sheets. Confused, he flipped them over; his bed was damp with sheen, sweat, and cum—enough to fill a pitcher. His boxers were drowned mostly, but that didn't really compare to the twitching, aching, boner that lay between his legs.
“Ugh”, he sighed, grunting, “Damn, that hurts like fuck.”
Tired and sheepish was an understatement at this point, so with some reluctance, Keante moved to get out of bed, or at least to try.
His legs felt lifeless and limp as he slid them over the edge, and as they dangled there, not by accident did he find himself just staring at them. I need a drink, he thought, a good stiff drink. And not for the first time did the youth drum through his own thoughts of what exactly is and isn’t considered proper drinking material to cure grogginess, as if any of these notions truly mattered to his existence. But, as quickly as his intense thoughts came, just as so was as they went, and when Keante woke up from his trance, again staring at his legs and subsequently pinching himself a dozen times, and after making sure his legs were less prosthetic and more actual limbs, he hobbled his tired ass to the bathroom. Turning on the light, his winced as his eyes were subsequently light-raped by the sudden burst of bright that seemed to sexually assault them.
“Shit, man. Fuck!”
Yup, I really, really a fucking drink.
It took only a few seconds for his eyes to adjust before he was able to look himself over in the mirror.
It wasn't like he missed anything.
At 19 years old, Keante stood '6'3' and was athletically built, with broad shoulders and a strong neck. From a first impression, he looked a lot like a football player, but whereas a football player was bulkier and meatier, Keante was leaner, and less rough and rigid. Basketball to the core, but good as a linebacker if he needed to be given a chance on the field. The only real indication of raw power came from the intense but smooth veins in his forearms and hands, which were covered with small scars; a result of his years fighting on the streets, and the abuse he suffered years ago from his mother’s transgressions. His face was crude, with full cheeks and well-formed lips which often protruded outward—not all the way, but enough to be menacing in some aspects—when he was mean mugging someone; if not, they were normal full, black lips. His eyes, which were hazel, were pink: somewhat bloodshot, but fully, even though he still could pass off as a weed head. His head still pounded somewhat, and his chest was heaving. He looked like model, and in comparison to celebrities him being considered a darker version of Chris Brown would've been normal at this instance, but for now, that was another story. Right now, he felt like pure and total shit and pretending to look sexy only made his body lurch even worse.
What he couldn't for the life of himself figure out, was what the fuck had actually happened to him?
What was that dream? He thought, why did it seem so real?
And who was that guy—that-that… kid?
I seriously must be on some dumb shit to be even dreaming about this…
Me… dickin’ down a nigga? And a nigga that look like a chick?
The fuck have I been smokin’?
He paused in his thoughts.
But…
He… He was beautiful.
The way he felt… It’s almost like he, felt at home in my arms. And his body, it was slender, and so small, I felt like I was gonna break him in half.
But I didn’t.
I…I…
Aach!
It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer against a bell, the way his head hurt. He couldn't describe it, but that didn't compare to the ache his whole body felt. It was like he been restrained menacingly and then shot out of a cannon, the feeling of wind ripping and slicing through him, tearing away his flesh and shredding his insides like ribbons. But the constricting, tightening, feeling, he couldn't shake it off; it was cold, solid, and metallic... like chains unto his soul.
“Ahhh!” he groaned, his teeth gritting smartly.
Beware the eternal hunger. Beware the consummation of fear and despair.
His body ached, and he trembled in fear as those words echoed in his subconscious and vibrated throughout his body, burning into his muscles and searing into flesh. His arms ached immensely, but he couldn’t remember why. But whatever the reason, the pain was almost hypnotic in a ways.
As if in response to the pain, Keante began rubbing his elbows and upper arms.
He continued to massage them before he moved onward to the rest of his aching body, moving up and down making sure he spared no one space on his skin. Keante closed his eyes as he did, allowing himself a temporary relief from the sight of pain, and by chance found his left hand massaging a particular place, warm and almost hot with wiry anticipation. The more he rubbed, the warmer it got, and suddenly the warmth gained weight, and numb. It was like waking up a new sense, only with each centimeter it rose, the sudden burning was unmistakable—only it felt good. A soft sigh escaped him as he kindly massaged himself, almost meticulous as he did so. Not directly touching or disrupting the warmth that slowly crept into his veins, muscles and tendons, but taking care to attend to other places, like all that dangling beneath it, and then further away from it, a darkness that was both cold to the touch and yet simultaneously the most curious.
The warmth beneath him grew, and as it did, so to the heat that suddenly spooned him. The burning had lessened to a degree, but the sudden sensation of demanding attention made him focus all out to it. Finally giving in, his left hand expectantly wrapped itself around it.
He winced in satisfaction; his hand felt like it belonged there. That's when the moving started. Slow at first; deliberate as to not ruin the moment, but then picking up until it felt more like a race. Opening his eyes, he looked himself up and down in the mirror. Biting his lip, he analyzed every inch of himself. He had one leg perched on the toilet and was glistening with sweat. It was obvious from the beads that ran down the six packs that made up his abs that he wouldn't be leaving until this matter was dealt with. He was completely shredded in the muscular sense, even for a basketball player, but was thin enough that it worked for him. He rubbed himself down further, biting his lip. And almost like magic, he suddenly felt the touch of a soft hand caress his chest. These soft, delicate hands moved and up down his body a sense of calm and relaxation radiating from them with each sensitive caress they provided. And not by chance did he find himself hearing moaning and gasping as the voice of his forbidden love softly serenading him in his ears.
He heard gasping and groaning, a voice saying more, baby please. More!
Likewise, he started groaning, in response to the voice, moaning and gasping as well to the sound of clapping loud in his voice.
“You like that baby, you like how hit it there?” he asked, “you like it there baby?”
Yes, oh god yes, please, more, give me more. Please, I can’t take it anymore.
“I got you bae, I got you”, he replied, pleased with himself.
He continued to whisper and coo for minutes, the pace of his beating in unison with the moans and gasps of his silent hearings, until the voices changed from give me more, to don’t pull out. At that instant, he nostrils flared again and his pace increase, his beat faster, and his muscles bulged and grew warm with a special fuzzy feeling. Keante’s closed eyes furrowed and his beetled, his pace increasing even more so much so that even with the door closed, the loudness of his actions made it more obvious that he simply would not stop.
A few moments later, he gasped and finally let it out of his mouth.
“Aah fuck, aah fuck!” he finally grunted.
His body heaved, his chest felt like it would explode, and the burning intensified. It felt like hot iron in his grasp—painful and excruciating to the senses—and yet it felt so fucking good! He went further, switching between bouts of “aah fuck, fuck yes baby!” to “omigosh nigga!” to “I love you baby! I love you so fucking much!”, when he finally finished his fill. It happened so quick, and so sudden: overwhelming pressure building and bottling up inside of him. The end result was an immediate and frightening wave of calm, lasting only a small second before he exploded. He sprayed, spilling over the sink and floor, releasing fumes of musk, pleasure, and sweat. It lasted for a bought a minute or two, the eruption, before his heaving and twitching permitted him a quiet reprieve. Looking at it, it looked a water hose; not very big or grand. But to him, it was Mt. St. Helens had finally crescendo-ed its main eruption into a symphony of pure might.
It was powerful, decimating, and destructive.
It was beautiful.
It was a serious thing....
Well. At least to Keante.
The sensation did not last long, however, and following suit, a massive surge of vertigo from the sexually induced overload had washed over him. Keante opened his eyes, only to heave over the sink. The trembling that came after was so momentous; it was almost like a miniature earthquake. Dizzy and stupid, his legs numb and turning to Jell-O, Keante could only hold himself weak as wave after wave of dizziness took over. The room spun profusely in various directions, twisting and turning and stretching and shrinking in unison of an uncanny display. If he was drugged, this would be similar in comparison, but as he was not, it did not matter. The same could be said if he was drunk, but that too did not matter. For now... what mattered, was that the poor boy was reeling from a sexual high that left him drained and aching for both rest and, unfortunately, more sex.
“Ugghh”, he finally managed, “this shit....”
He couldn't finish.
Once again, he doubled over and lurched, feeling ready to vomit. He didn't, but held himself in the position no less; all wary and no edge. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the worst of the motion sickness settled and his body loosened up. Easing up a bit, he sighed and lifted his head, looking upon himself in the mirror once again.
Nothing had changed.
There he was, a soaking mess of flesh and bone panting like a lap dog. Right now, he looked like hammered shit and felt like it as well.
“Fuck”, he sputtered, “fuck.”
Groaning with uneasiness, Keante turned around from the sink to walk into the shower tub directly across. After closing the curtain and shaking off the unsteadiness of his hands, he grabbed the water knobs and turned on the shower. What came next was only expected: despite setting the water to the temperature that felt good to the hands, when the stream touched his body, Keante nearly screamed aloud as the temperature of the water collided with the temperature of the heat radiating from his skin. It was like acid seeping into his pores and slithering into his flesh, a venomous, seductive dance of pain and agony that was torturous... and yet uncontrollably addictive and stimulating as the two opposing sides fought for control. The softness of the cool water battled against the unyielding fire burning beneath his pores, fighting long and arduous, until their eventual consummation resulted in the inhumanly impossible: steam. The young man's body was literally boiling externally until it steamed, as unknown to him, bright flames flickered from his fingertips. The sparks of fire were small, no larger than a match light, only they changed colors ranging from hot pink, to adobe yellow, to tangy orange.
Keante bathed for a few minutes more before calling it quits. Turning off the water and grabbing a towel, he stepped out and wiped himself down in the steamy bathroom, his nostrils opening up from the stress relieving sense the vapors gave. And yet despite his discomforts, Keante was completely unaware of the small blue flames glowing on his shoulders reflected in the mirror; his back to the glass as his faced the wall while drying off, until the flames disappeared as he fully stepped out the shower, and looked at himself in the mirror once again.
He looked tired, but refreshed no less.
Walking out of his bathroom, he looked at his surroundings. His room was junky, littered with clothes and shoes, a typical boy's room. The window was still cracked open to his far left, while his bedroom door was to his close left. A poster of Ciara, topless and covering her half-naked self with her hands as her bikini was slipping off, hung on the wall next to the door, under which was his hamper, barfing dirty clothes, and right next to that a large mirror and dresser, on which were bottles, papers, cans, snacks, even a box of Trojans.
They were gold, solid gold, or at least that's what the box said. Either way they came in handy when he brought in girls to fuck. But with the moon beaming downward on his bed, if it weren't for his TV, he could barely make out their shapes. To his right, his desk, with his MacBook Pro, which had died (obviously, why the fuck didn't he charge it? He though, ugh, fuck!), along with last week’s homework from three classes, all of which he hated: Theory of Knowledge, English, and Computer Science. Right next to him, his 72 inch flat screen, which he left on TBS from watching reruns of Big Bang Theory, was stuck on a telemarketing infomercial, selling total gyms that only looked half as good as they sounded, with dopey ass white people saying how they got steroid muscles using them. In the far right corner of his room, his sliding closet door was open, and his shoe shelf shone in the moonlight. 40 individual pairs of Nike’s and Jordan’s adorned all three levels, while at on the lowest he kept 3 pairs of black Italian Conquistadors; for when he had to show up to church, which he rarely did, unless he planned on getting laid in the basement while the service was going on.
He sighed, scratched his chest, and peeling off his towel, walked nude to bed. A large, jagged, diamond shaped stain spanned the length of most of the bed, with smaller lines indicating where his limbs were. Originally, pitch black, the stain was softer now, almost hard to make out, but still noticeable. Shrugging it off, went back to his towel, and threw it on the bed, and stretching out atop it, laid back down on his mattress. He turned to his right, that small bed stand looked ominous in the dark; where his alarm clock shone in the black, lamp, and his desert eagle handgun pistol were barely markable beyond their outlines.
He looked at the clock; it was 2:20 a.m. Only 5 minutes passed overall.
Suddenly, the number clicked.
It was now 2:21.
Now one minute had passed. 6 minutes overall.
“You know what, fuck it”, he concluded, shooting a menacing glance at his TV, “fuck this, and fuck you.”
Turning over to face the window, Keante took one last look out it. The moon was partly visible in the cloudless sky, but still very bright for the season it currently was. For the late summer, it simply didn't feel like it. Shrugging it off, and visibly annoyed nonetheless, Keante ignored the moon, the TV, and his own inhibitions, and closed his eyes and went to sleep. All the while, in the back of his mind he shivered as his thoughts wandered back to his dream. He thought about the images he saw, and of the vision of the alley, and of the chains. He wondered about their relations, and their importance therein, only to shrug them off and discard them like waste before the true meal of repose. More importantly however, he thought about the boy, and how beautiful he was, and how he realized deep down that secretly he wanted this boy, and only him.
Suddenly his eyes grew heavy, and seemingly intoxicated by the recent excursions of what felt like an eternity, his body was enveloped by the tiredness before sleep, and he then drifted off to the land of waking minds. But all the while, in his mind, and in his body, two words echoed throughout.
Two words he heard the first time, and stuck with him.
Two words that would come haunt him, and would soon echo in the darkness of his future bouts of fear and despair.
Two words...
Save me...
(To be continued).