Embrace
On the chat app, Ernie and Nels exchange messages, May 19th.
The_Editor: Finally! One week and no word. That’s unprofessional. I reported you missing yesterday. Now I will have to get back to the police and revert that. Waste of my time… and money.
Nels_NYcontrib: Sorry.
The_Editor: In a week or two you should have the money to pay me back though. This story has potential. You managed to find something.
The_Editor: Dirty old men with money are the gift that keeps on giving. I bet at least a third of our ad revenue derives from men of substance who somehow penetrated something the social mores say they ought not to have.
The_Editor: So let us wrap this up. Here is what I want:
The_Editor: Names, address, photographs. Then you return to the city and we write it up together. I will remove the floral language, and bring it down to the basic transactions for the average reader to understand. You, Charlie and I will turn this into an article that will make the click-through rate go through the roof.
Nels_NYcontrib: I will stay longer. My mission is not complete.
The_Editor: Sure, you still need to get names. Sovereign, Prince… this is not good enough. But you can get that, right? If nothing else, just leave the house, snap some photos, geotag the place and so on. If I have the address we can work from that.
Nels_NYcontrib: We do not wear clothing. We are the creations of beauty. So it wouldn’t be easy to just walk out of here into the ordinary world.
The_Editor: Come on! You are no prude. A guy like you might even like it if a horny trucker gets his hands on you as you hitch-hike your way back to the city.
The_Editor: So let me bottom line it for you: I need that additional information before I publish. And you are not compensated before publication. You work for me. You do what I say.
Nels_NYcontrib: No.
The_Editor: Care to elaborate?
Nels_NYcontrib: No, fart face.
The_Editor: Seriously, dude? What’s your fucking problem? Do I need to get the lawyers involved? Make clear to you your contractual obligations. There are laws you know. I could sue. I have that right. Breach of contract. It’s in the Constitution.
The_Editor: So take a deep breath, get the information I asked for, return it here, and I may even throw in a nice dinner in your compensation package. Be a good boy now. Like you used to be.
Nels_NYcontrib: Ken and I are working on getting Victor saved. I must stay. Do good. It is a mandate. No cap.
The_Editor: Save Victor? Save him from what?
Nels_NYcontrib: Save him from the ugly. He is our brother.
The_Editor: What has happened to you? You get butt fucked once and now you’re in love?
The_Editor: It is already way too poetic. Will it become even cheesier? ‘Oh, my glorious Prince and mighty bull, enliven me with your powerful manhood, let me serve thy godsend flesh.’
The_Editor: Get back here. Get back to the real world. Let us expose the sexual debauchery of the filthy rich. That’s what you told me you wanted to do. Remember?
Nels_NYcontrib: Fuck off.
Nels_NYcontrib: You don’t understand.
Nels_NYcontrib: I must do things. It is not a choice. It is necessary. A manly thing.
Nels_NYcontrib: Ever heard of that?
Nels_NYcontrib: You do not command me. You aren’t man enough.
**Nels_NYcontrib exits the chat
The_Editor: Hey! I warn you.
The_Editor: Your butt-fuck bend-over adventure on company dime is over.
The_Editor: I might point the police in your direction. I make those blockheads find you.
The_Editor: Then I sue you for breach of contract. The legal bills alone will bankrupt your sorry ass.
The_Editor: Or maybe when the police find you I can turn that into a story.
The_Editor: I picture the headlines already: ‘Billionaire brainwashes cornfed Hilly Billy in his sex dungeon, you won’t believe what happens next.’ Or maybe: ‘Man-on-man orgy in an upstate mansion, exclusive pictures from the police raid — an ungodly shrine to the Midwestern butthole.’
The_Editor: Write to me, give me the details I asked for and I might let you stay on the payroll and not be exposed in the story. If not, then the boys in blue and I will take our turns on your sorry ass, figuratively speaking.
Draft authored by Nels on May 22nd, recovered from digital device, NYPD evidence archive number B-55-2x54-5
Who do we write for when we put pen to paper, or in our present era, the tips of the fingers to the keys to write? We may have some expectation of an audience, an image perhaps of that person who encounters our authored words in the near or distant future. Is it that image that levitates above us as we in the present time form letters into words, words into sentences, and sentences into that uniquely human act of meaning-making?
Or is it all a solipsistic struggle with oneself — self-directed dick-stroking for my soul alone? Or, perhaps on the other extreme, my craft is in service of something greater — ineffable love gushing across time and persons?
I began this journey with a hope and a wish. I hoped to discover the cause of all that is wrong with the space and time our lives are bound to. My wish was that it would not all turn into yet another forgettable set of words for random voyeurs to browse in secret in an attempt to feel their dicks stir with lustful judgment.
I think I may have been granted that wish and proven right to hope. But the reasons for said fortune are something my simple mind mere weeks ago could not even begin to comprehend. Here and now — I think — I can.
I apologize for this philosophical prelude. However deep and penetrating thought is a neglected part in manly acts and sensations. My firm butt is not the exclusive means to that. He is thinking with his dick — a common charge aimed at the sexual male. You are joyfully dicking someone with deep thoughts — the other side of the proverbial coin. Both sides of manhood!
Alright, with that out of my system. Back to Ken and I, nude and horny, as had been our lot for the last however many days.
A few days ago, Ken shared his idea with me. I love him. We, and our other fellow brothers, had finished a session of exercise — in the nude naturally — in the basement of the palace of the Sovereign. To stay healthy and handsome is an aesthetic duty.
As fragrant and warm water rinsed our bodies, Ken leaned closer to me and whispered.
“We need help from Buck, and I know how.” Ken had embraced my naming convention of the lion brothers.
Our target was still Victor — sweet Victor — who had been acquired by the putrid Silver Man. We knew, without a doubt, that it was for the better if Victor joined us here. The Prince would love to mount that nice bouncy butt. The Prince deserved the very best. And Victor was beautiful and playful. A real cutie, as it were. It was deeply wrong for him to become all slimy with the Silver Man’s exudate. The Sovereign had to become Victor’s master.
“How? Buck barely talks,” I whispered to Ken.
“He has the hots for me. He wants my butt. Like, all the time. Sure, he is very dutiful and tends to us boys of the Sovereign well. But I feel his big dick energy a bit extra. He wants to be close and inside me. Be good to me. The way he touches me and commands me — I know. So if I reveal my sadness about Victor, I think Buck will become involved. Take action.”
It was true. Buck’s big hands tended to end up on Ken’s playful butt sooner or later, no matter the activity. Exercise, eating, martial arts, lectures on aesthetics, geometry and history, working on sculptures, singing, dancing, or whatever odd activity the Sovereign had assigned us, Buck always found reasons to fondle that smooth and precious pair of buttocks.
No doubt, great ass, applied well, is a force multiplier. And so it happened that Ken’s butt had gripped Buck’s big dick three nights ago and quivered in all the delicate ways around the big man.
I peeked through the veil and looked at them in action. Ken was on his side, one leg lifted high, and behind him was Buck. One arm he wrapped around Ken’s torso, the other he used to adjust Ken’s raised leg to motion the boy into ideal postures to receive the dick Buck was commanding in and out of Ken’s butt. Ken’s dick was bobbing along with the rhythm.
From my angle, I saw both their faces. It was simply beautiful. Buck had dropped his stern demeanour. Ken’s body and soul created such joy inside Buck. With his strength, Buck could easily have hurt Ken. But rather than applying blunt force to a pliable object, Buck was mindful and loving, keeping his power over Ken at just the best level. And Ken did what he seemingly had been put on this Earth for and wiggled and flexed to give Buck all the attention and reward a horny bottom boy can give his commanding top.
Add to that neck-kissing, nipple-twisting, butt-slapping and foot-tickling fun, and Ken sang all the dulcet tones of sexual bliss, and Buck grunted a steady monochromatic tune of primal lust.
In short, Ken’s whispered deduction in the showers had been accurate. The obvious corollary, almost too trivial to state for the august readership I hope for: diligent athletic work on the badminton court can — nay, must — pay off in the meaty, tangible arena of real-world consequences. Work out that butt, boys! The well-being of man may depend on it.
Proof of that fundamental law, though rewarding and good in itself, was however not sufficient. Ken’s desirable assets, applied well and vigorously, could not by themselves bring Victor to his proper place. This kingdom operated by a set of rules — simple and certain ones. Among them: at the apex of the hierarchy and designs was the Sovereign. Buck served the grand designs too — there were no exceptions.
Consequently, my creative powers had to be applied. The Sovereign had to want Victor as well in his harem, living art celebration, elite army unit, sexy ninja muscle ryu or whatever magnificent purpose we served in his designs.
I rolled onto my back. I felt the spark of determination in my body, which added that extra heft to my balls. I was horny for action, inspired by thought. The sounds of Buck’s final strong thrusts into Ken’s warm and joyful surrender were the perfect soundtrack. This was no longer a choice or option — it was necessary. My actions were cosmically decreed.
By the next morning, I had a plan: the Prince was my path to mission success. He and the Sovereign visited us from time to time. Though they typically kept their distance, they were engaged in our acts and education. It was Buck, Doctor Matthew and other men who had stroked, instructed and nourished me most directly since my arrival. As good as that all felt, the plan I drew up in my mind was to be taken by the Prince again. His dick power was essential.
Not long ago I would have feared vying for the attention of a man of his calibre. The person I was before (how distant one month can be) would have wallowed in self-pity and textbook grievances, and somehow that pitiful guy would have convinced himself that he could not — must not — let a superior man like the Prince command, fuck, and take. No more! Submission is for the tough and determined, not the meek and halfhearted.
Like a long line of boys before me, stretching back to Ancient times, if not longer, fate gifted me an opportunity to excel in my mission while naked on my back, legs and arms fixed in bondage, my dick and ass primed, throbbing and begging for attention.
Doctor Matthew had been edging me in said position after I had concluded a gruelling session on the stair master. Whatever part of my body that could drip and tingle did. Whatever the education and action under the Sovereign’s roof were meant to imbue or engender, men of excellence administered it with stern love and impressive skill. Indeed, something had blossomed inside me thanks to Doctor Matthew’s artistry over the last few days.
That was when the Prince entered the chamber.
“Nels the Naked. Nels the Formidable. Nels the Need to Know. He is a sight to behold. We sure know how to spot them, strip them down to their essence, nurture the good” the Prince said and nodded to Doctor Matthew.
Despite the restraints, I wiggled my butt, flexed my abs and gave the Prince a horny and happy look. He was hotter than ever. I wanted him to want to come close.
It worked. He sat down next to me and began to move his hand over me. He touched, grabbed and pressed. I submitted. I wanted him to take and command — external bondage was superfluous. I knew it, he knew it, we knew it.
Like a bee over a cluster of fragrant flowers, the Prince’s index finger moved along a chaotic trajectory over the tender skin of my buttocks. As much power as he had, the attractive force of my butt pulled him ever closer — he was fated to plow and to probe. Without even looking, I knew his dick screamed for that warm, deep, horny embrace.
“My Prince, let us make this part of your education as well as Nels’ training. An opportunity has presented itself, thanks to Nels the Formidable — the boy has made a true commitment, whether he admits it or not. Let me teach you how to connect,” said Doctor Matthew.
At first, I was disappointed by the intervention. It seemed like cruel cock-blocking — the kind the Geneva Convention ought to ban. My opinion changed in short order, however. A man as powerful, handsome, vigorous and young as the Prince has many attributes to love, admire and worship. But, as many bottoms will attest to, a tad too often such guys get a smidgen too clumsy and pushy. A degree of experience and seniority on the top can add to a boy’s delicate joys. That is only logical. My senior professor in rhetoric made these features abundantly clear last semester. Did I gush and stain some fellow students’ assignments while working on my grades on all fours on the professor’s desk? I plead the insanity defence! He stroked both tip and depth insanely well, so my apologies for the oddly wrinkled papers.
What I mean to convey is that Doctor Matthew used me as a pliable, multi-purpose instruction object to impart knowledge and wisdom to the Prince. The Prince was a most eager and studious man. And I was a willing, whimpering and most helpful object for his education.
The Doctor’s expert instruction guided the Prince’s hands, fingers and mouth over my body. My butt convulsed and the Prince’s crotch fabric stretched to uncomfortable degrees. But for at least half an hour, the Doctor pointed out new places on my body to be groped, pinched, stroked and sucked on. In other words, for good reasons, both the Prince and I groaned with relief when the Doctor finally announced that the next lesson was good old-fashioned top-in-bottom in-and-out revelry.
The Prince removed all his clothes in a matter of seconds. He positioned himself above me and placed a wet kiss on my face. It is not uncommon for men in heat for sweet ass to turn into a loveable clumsy-affectionate beast. The Prince, for all his power and sophistication, was no different. My ass, my body, my face and my spirit saw to that.
He was out of his mind horny for me. Once his dick was past the tight threshold, his animal lust took over. The hip thrusting turned intense fast and the grunting beastly. His motion reverberated through me. I wiggled and squeezed. Bluntly put, this was one amazing butt fuck assault.
Doctor Matthew removed the bondage from my hands. As the laws of nature dictated, I wrapped my hands firmly around the Prince’s neck. I wanted to feel his tense muscles as they moved, ground and joined our bodies together.
“Save me!”
Yes, that was what I shouted to the Prince at the height of ecstasy. Not the stereotypical ‘yeah, fuck that ass’, ‘fill my hole’, or their Czech language equivalents. But for some reason, ‘save me’ was my spontaneous dirty talk. Embarrassment would have turned me redder than a ripe tomato had it not been for the excitement and exhaustion that already coloured my body.
If I was able to hide the effects of my silly shriek, the Prince was not. From what already was a powerful thrusting, he took it a level higher and with increasing tension and groaning, fucked his dick hard and fast inside me. He leaned in close, placed his mouth on my neck and he came. Hard, fast, rough, deep, then slow, relaxed, followed by a long exhalation. He stuck to me for a while. I felt his heartbeat. We stayed as close as male anatomy allowed.
What more can I write? Something changed, that much I know. The next day the Prince joined me again for a second round. Doctor Matthew, with us again, shared only the occasional remark. The Prince was performing at near-expert levels already by all accounts — my hollers and screams included.
My plan was working, I reasoned later that night. On the third day, I would introduce Victor into the conversation. Mention his many pleasurable and spirited attributes and our duty to save him. How could the Prince not be affected by that? After all, he was a nice and strong man who knew right from wrong. Wise and handsome. His body almost bursting at the seams from all the best manly virtues he packed inside. We had formed a bond. He would listen, feel my knowledge and concern, and desire to act on it.
That was the truth. I felt it.
That never came to pass, however. The next morning, Buck summoned me. I was brought into a large library, lightly scented with wood and ancient books. The Sovereign sat in a large leather armchair. Behind him stood the Prince. I was instructed to go on my knees in front of the Sovereign.
“Nels, I hear many things about you. Many voices sing your mellifluous tune. I ask though: are you ready to truly submit?” said the Sovereign.
He raised his hand before I had time to answer with a routine ‘yes’ to advance my mission. He spoke again with more gravitas.
“Search your soul, Nels. Find deep within the truth. Because I ask not for some hourly service or bounded transactions regulated by contract law. My craft and domain are not meant for some moderately entertaining once-a-month role-play spiced up with butt plugs and furry handcuffs. As I ask all men of my domain, I ask you to embrace fully the purpose I give. I require your complete submission.”
“Leave behind the petty critiques and humdrum goals. Become whole with us, and serve the purpose. Feel it in your flesh. Submit to excellence.”
I felt my eyes tearing. Naked on my knees, a subject in front of the Sovereign and his words, I felt real. The performance was over. For the first time in my life, it was as if I felt my blood pumping through my body, hot and nourishing, almost burning me, toasting my groin, filling my chest and heart. In my blurring vision, I saw him and the Prince as clear and bright as sunlight above me. And thus I knew…
“I submit,” my mouth spoke.
“You are now unburdened and unfree. I am your master. The bosses you serve in the ordinary world do not matter. Those bonds are broken. You have come home,” the Sovereign said.
Tears ran down my eyes. Never before have I felt so light. I was almost flying as if a drug ran through my veins. However, it was the power of words that moved me. The performance was over. I became real.
Have I conveyed my sensations and state of mind well enough? Language is imperfect, inventive, halfway, and ambiguous — just like wild and organic nature, that we only ever can experience obliquely. As you read this in your office, Ernie, contemplating what parts to cut, and which word to adjust or cheapen in order to bring it down to what you shallowly understand as the base level, know this: you and I are no longer in the same world. You are nothing. The vaguely outlined sensations have made me whole.
No, this is not some breaking-the-fourth-wall stylistic choice that I have borrowed from a pretentious magazine. Snap out of your detached editorial mind. It is real now. This text will not be published, not within your domain.
This text became my testimony — perhaps it always was. Sure, you have the right to publish, I know you like to remind me of that. Having the right to something is not the same as having the power, courage and fortitude to act. You have nothing of the latter. But I do.
The Sovereign knows you. I have no secrets. I am naked in every way in front of my master. You read this because it is part of his design to let you read my account. Your only wise choice is to forget I ever was in your orbit. Will you be wise? Why am I even asking… we know the answer to that question already.
I have a new mission. The world has to be moved and errors set right. My ass is ready.
