Liturgy of the Beast

This is not a story. It's a liturgy.

Not a romance -- a descent.

A man takes. A boy breaks.

The rite is written in flesh.

I. THE BEAST

Tonight is my ceremony.

Not one of flowers and neat tables, of candles and guests, soft lights and speeches. It doesn't take place in halls where people clap at the right time. No mirror to check the tie, no piano, clean shirts or glasses of wine. I'm not the man you dress in white and greet at the door. That stance was never mine. Never earned grace, never faked it to wear like it fits.

I'm the one you pretend not to see. The presence you feel at the edge of the sidewalk before you cross the street. The one you flinch from at the gas station. The one your uncle warned you not to be. Hair thick across the chest, dense at the arms -- nothing trimmed, nothing tamed. Just meat and fur and shadow.

The man-suit doesn't fit anymore. It splits at the seams. The idea of me melts like salt. What's left is a shape -- broad, dark, a need that took form. Rougher than me. Realer.

I'm the brute. That's the word. A man-shaped beast, with a wolfish grin that shows the teeth before the soul. All stubble, rank and steam. My build speaks for me: wide, grounded, made to hold weight. Not built for softness. Not trained for mercy.

My hands are rough from wanting, from years of gripping what wasn't offered. My steps don't land -- they strike. They announce. I'm not walking -- I'm being pulled, by this heat swelling in my veins like a scream that won't come out. It's not a choice anymore; it's a summons. It rises in me like the beast knew its hour.

The funk rolls off me like heat off an engine. Clean or not, it commands before I open my mouth. I smell of locker rooms, of skin that's worked through the hour and past the talk. My tank top curls at the chest, soaked and stretched. My pits don't whisper -- they bite. My socks stay on even when nothing else does.

Underneath: dark briefs, tight, shaped by what they hold. They don't forgive either. They sting where they cling. They ride, they rub, they remind. They're not for seduction. They're the last gate before the rush. No apology.

And still -- I walk in like I own it. I'm built for rut, not romance. Each step claims the floor. The air changes when I enter -- like it remembers something it tried to forget. It turns dense, murky, heavy with what's coming.

II. THE TEMPLE

I got here early tonight. Not from nerves--just habit. It's one of the empty listings: mid-century building, top floor, wide halls, tall mirrors. This is the kind of place buyers call "full of potential." I showed it twice this week--once to a lawyer with a briefcase, once to a woman with measuring tape. I smiled. I kept the lights on.

The parquet creaks under my feet where the carpet stops. No furniture, just a low armchair in a corner. I left the blinds open to let the streetlight in. The city hums beyond the glass. The walls don't mind. They've heard worse.

There's a mirror in the hallway, cracked in the corner. A shadow with eyes. I pass it without seeing myself: it's the one that watches.

The silence isn't empty. It whispers. Things I understand without words. The walls sweat memory, not paint. The floor is warm from nothing you can see. The armchair doesn't wait--it receives. Every board here remembers weight. Every corner tastes of something that never got named.

This isn't an apartment--it's a cavity. A body built to swallow. It doesn't welcome, it holds. It pulses in the corner, like a chest held too tight. It drips from the ceiling. The air clings to the skin like a filthy promise.

Once you step in, the exit forgets you. Even empty, the place reeks of act. Even the light lowers its head, like it knows.

Tonight, first thing I did was kill the hallway light. The room is darker than it needs to be. Not cold--just waiting.

Tonight, I'm not the agent with a smile and a pitch. No tie, no clipboard, no keys in hand. I'm not here to show the kitchen, not here to open the closets or the windows. Something else is going to open. And I'll be standing right there when it does.

Tonight I'm the doorman of flesh. I don't show the way. I am the way.

Tonight I'm the dark priest of old rites unbound. What I serve is older than mercy. With me, the rite is flesh and force. It doesn't lift--it sears.

This is my crimson chapel. Not one of incense and stained glass. No glass, no gold--but dusk and musk. This isn't shelter. It's exposure. This isn't safety. It's a blade you kneel under.

No light from above, only heat from below. The floor is the altar. And knees were made for it. No robes, just skin. No chalice, but what the body spills.

The walls here don't echo scripture--they hold the low command, the grunt, the cry. They carry the name of what men can't say out loud. Every moan here is a prayer. Every thrust seals the pact.

This isn't the place where men come to kneel out of faith--it's where they're pressed to it. Pinned by need, by ache, by the slap of truth. It's not pain they come for--it's what it burns away.

III. THE ANGEL

The bell breaks through the hush. Not loud--just sharp enough to split the stillness. Through the round glass in the door--the eye of the beast--I behold him.

He's standing close, hands in pockets, not moving much. No smile, no flinch--just that look. The one that says he knows. Not everything, but enough.

I open.

He steps in without a word. Not like a guest--like someone expected. His eyes flick once across the room. Then back to me. He stands like prey that's scented the zone. Tense, still dressed, but inside the ring. I close the door behind him. No click--a thud.

Here he stands at the entrance of the cave. For a second, we don't speak. Just our breaths. Our scent. His is light, careful, tentative, with that trace of synthetic fruit boys wear when they're still hoping to be liked.

He's all clean lines and tight, smooth skin, neck bare, jaw too soft to threaten. All pressed cotton, aftershave, college gym, dorm beds, freshman guilt. He smells like soap that doesn't know what it's washing off.

His shirt is pale--too pale for this hour--and creased just enough to show it was ironed. The collar still remembers the hanger. His jeans are dark and narrow, no scuff, no fray, no thread loose. His shoes--laced, polished, silent.

He's young. Not much above twenty. But not the loud kind. He's the kind who learns fast. The kind who shivers without showing it. The kind who watches older men in silence. Not to resist--but to get it right.

The contrast is absurd. He's clean, lean, brand new.

No grime. No bruise. Still soft inside. That skin hasn't learned yet. It still thinks beauty is enough. He's what the world still wants to pretend is clean. He doesn't move, but offers more by standing still than some others do on their knees.

He is everything I've shed. Everything I'd tear again. Soft where I'm scar. Light where I've grown dark. He's the kind of boy I ought to spare, and I'm the old man he should avoid.

I'm twice his age. Twice his weight. Twice his hair. Twice his history. I stink of long nights and harder years--of rooms where men shut the door and don't come out the same.

And still, he's here. In my space. In my air. Close enough to feel that thick, male heat that clings and bites. He crossed the threshold and stayed. That's all I need to know.

He's an angel--not by grace, but by design. Flesh built to be watched, to be wanted, to be taken down. He's beautiful in the way something becomes itself under pressure.

He knows what he walked into. He doesn't know how it ends--but he knows how it starts.

He wants what comes next. He wants it bad. He craves the drop. The grip. The shame. He came for the loss. And now I will make him feel what it means to be stripped of all excuse.

IV. THE OPENING

The crack begins to show. A tremor behind the eyes. Then the hand moves, down, slow. Finds the shirt, pulls. A crease appears, then bare skin.

The chest shows first, pale. Lightly damp. Then the belly--soft at the middle, tense underneath. His throat jumps in staccato. Pulse like drumsticks behind the bone.

Then it happens. One button pops. His belt loosens. The sound is small but final. He drops his jeans. Not flaunted. Just down. Like he can't hold the weight of them anymore.

And then--he sinks.

He's down now--knees to the ground, right in front of me, unveiled. Back arched, arms locked behind his head like a prisoner at inspection. Like a soldier snapping into position before orders drop. Shoulders tight. Thighs loaded. Neck stretched like a rope just before it pulls.

His blue briefs are still on, barely, tight across the hips, holding to their job. Obscene in how little they hide, how much they try to hold. Useless, really--but still clinging. They tremble slightly with the way he breathes.

His socks too--white, thin, boyish--underline the bareness more than they mask it. There's no more will left in the pose. Only body. Only skin. Only need.

He kneels like a disciple who's found his master. Not the kind that comes seeking comfort. The kind who wants the law. The lash. The rule of something older and firmer than his own fear.

He bows as if the shame completes him. Naked, locked, obedient, that pose is exactly what he needed to find out who he is. As if submission sets him free.

I step forward, still silent. He doesn't raise his eyes. But his lips part, trembling from the tension that lives between command and surrender.

Then I touch him. Not to seize--just to land. Both hands, firm, flat, on his shoulders. The heat of him rises through my palms. His skin is smooth, is the kind that hasn't yet learned what hands like mine are for. Rough, broad, with hair curling over the knuckles and trailing down the wrist.

He flinches from the shock of contact. The way skin reacts when it meets something heavier, darker, older than it expected. His shoulders twitch once, then settle. He lets me rest there. Like he knows it's not just pressure. It's claim.

I offer a finger.

Just one. Push it past his lips--slow, deliberate--and watch the seal of his mouth close around it. He doesn't gag. He sucks. Obedient. Like second nature. Like he's known it since the womb. Like he knows what it's for. What comes next.

I pull it out--slick, glistening.

Then I grab his chest. Not cruel, not gentle. A grip, a twist--just enough to break him open. He lets out a faint, cracked sound, shamed by it even as it escapes. Under my thumb, his nipples harden. His skin shivers. His breath hitches. Each nerve waking like it had been waiting.

The boy's chest jolts--like a circuit closing. Not pain--more like a sudden, involuntary admission. His eyes turn glassy now. Not pleading. Not resisting. Just rimmed with something too raw to name.

I press again--slower this time, but meaner. Just to see how far the current runs. His eyes go blank. The numbness spreads through his face like a mist, dulling the last flickers of resistance. It's happening--the slip, the shift, the fall.

No one should touch a man this way. Not this raw. Not this bare. Not with such precision. Not with such calm. Not with this obscene tenderness hidden inside the act.

It reaches too far. It opens something he'd pretended didn't exist.

There's a place in the body--raw, unsheltered--where slackness and filth blur into revelation. Where shame turns sacred, and boundaries dissolve like wet chalk. That's where we are now. That's what I was reaching for. The breach.

There he is--open, trembling, exposed. A wound in the shape of a boy.

The mask he wore--whatever it was, whatever story it told--has dropped. His eyes confess.

This is not play. This is seizure. This is total control.

V. THE RISE

And then, I lose it. Something in me snaps, like a leather strap pulled too tight, too long. It isn't tenderness--but something older, darker. The beast stirs.

The growl comes before I realize it's mine. Low, guttural, rising straight from the gut--not a sound meant for language. Like tomcats gripped by rising heat, blind to anything but their rut. It comes from the dark part that knows hunger--and doesn't pretend.

No restraint left. Just bare command. Raw. Unpolished. Final.

I say one word.

"Off."

Not loud. It doesn't need to be. The air itself goes still, as if waiting for him to move. And he does. Freezes for a second--throat working, breath caught--then obeys. No question. No pause.

One clean move. He slips his fingers under the waistband, pulls the blue briefs down his thighs, and they drop. No drama. No seduction. Just exposure--raw, abrupt, absolute.

What I see is more than skin--it is surrender made flesh. Just that curve, that cleft--the shock of pale, vulnerable flesh abruptly unwrapped. Smooth, clean--like something preserved too long, now offered to flame. No guard, no pose, no framework to shield it.

His scent has shifted the moment he shed that last cover. What had been clean and faintly sweet now thickens into something sharp, male, urgent. I felt it before I even breathed it. It curls around my nose like a question. I have no choice but to answer. It bites the back of my throat, sends blood where it needs to go.

Even the walls seem to register it--the almost-audible pulse that comes from the middle of the room. Not his heart, not his breath--something else. Something harder.

There, right in the center of his body--his manhood is lifted and waiting. Fully, proudly. Not shy, not subtle, not ashamed, not unsure. Thick, uncaged, defiant. A flag raised, a sword lifted skyward, a weapon that doesn't hide, upright like a sentinel. It knows its place. It wants to serve.

It strains upward with the kind of loyalty that comes from some animal place, some training older than language. It stands there like a guard dog who's scented his master. A willing hound, poised and alert, trained to obey, with tail tucked low. Throbbing, alive with knowledge of who I am.

VI. THE PACT

This is the drum before the charge -- that strange, suspended silence before the hunt begins. The leash is already dropped, the fuse already lit. Everything has been said without speaking. He is the prey -- not because he is weak, but because he stayed. Because he chose not to flee. That makes him mine.

I can feel the tension in his limbs -- like a deer frozen under headlights, muscles tight, senses sharpened, breath shallow. His chest barely moves. His lips are parted, but no air comes. Even his eyes have stopped blinking.

I rise slowly, not to startle but to claim. Every motion deliberate. I unbuckle, unclasp, unzip -- like a warning. Strip off the rest. Let him see the brute fact of what is coming. The beast comes out -- hungry to rule.

And he stares -- wide-eyed, already silenced, not by shame, not by doubt, but by awe. As if something in him had already cracked open before I even touched him. As if some ancient wire had already been tripped, and now he is just standing there, waiting for the charge to run its course. This isn't fear. This is surrender without conditions.

I don't touch him yet. I let him see, I let him know. Not as a tease, but as a lesson. He needs to see the shape of what he's asked for -- the size, the weight, the will, the law made flesh.

I stand before him, massive, exposed, anchored. He raises his gaze slowly, and for a second, his eyes flick up to meet mine, blurred, unsteady -- but something sparks in them. Awe, maybe, but tinged with confusion, with the knowledge that some part of him had wanted this all along. As if he had wandered too deep into some ancient grove and met the god he'd whispered about but never believed was real.

He hesitates, then reaches -- not all at once, but in half-tries, each one stuttering against some invisible wall. Still, he wants it. You can tell by the way his fingers hover -- trembling, then landing, like a blind man reading his fate.

Then he dares. His hand slides downward. His fingers -- tentative, reverent -- trace the line, following it like Braille. He is learning me like scripture, inch by inch. Like learning a language he half remembered from dreams. This is his lesson, and I -- I am the test.

Each twitch of muscle beneath his palm seems to answer back like a sign, making him flinch slightly. He moves like a novice snake charmer, entranced by the coil he awakens, unsure if it will strike or bless. With each breath, he isn't just discovering me -- but discovering himself.

He meets the fruit, hanging low, dark, ripe and full before him. He takes the weight, the heat, the pulse with both his hands as if it had been waiting for him all his life.

He cups it in his palms with a kind of solemnity, like a priest lifting a relic that bears both power and doom. Not to play, but to gauge, to weigh the sentence he was about to receive. Holding, feeling, measuring what this moment means.

His cheek grazes the shaft -- no accident, no shyness. Slow, deliberate, like testing the weight of something heavy pressed against his skin. The contact leaves a smear -- funk and salt and tension.

I snap my length against his face -- taut, clean -- a sign branded across the cheek. Fact. Proof. Four sharp slaps, then stillness -- dry, firm, hot -- the sting of a lash.

He is mine. Before the thrust, before the heat, before the split and the moan. Not by force or charm, not by dominance alone -- but by the pull of something older, heavier, beyond us.

His eyes look up to me now. Just to show he knows. What he is. What I've made him. His gaze is not one of humiliation, but of clarity.

He kneels lower. He understands without a word. His silence is the vow. He will obey. I will rule. And he has accepted it.

The pact I sealed -- wordless, perfect. And I have barely even touched him yet.

VII. THE MIRROR

I open the door to the hallway. The city's faint glow filters through the blinds, casting faint patterns. The floorboards groan, low and slow, beneath our feet.

And then -- he sees us.

A single vast mirror dominates the wall, stretching from floor to ceiling. It spits back our naked bodies, doubled and tangled, merciless in their truth. He sees the back of his own neck. The twitch of his own lips. Things no one should see from the outside. The kind of truth only a mirror dares repeat.

I am everything he is not. My tank top clings tight to a pelt of sweat-drenched hair. My black socks root me like a beast marking its territory. His flawless, smooth skin gleams. His bouncy ass cheeks look innocent, untouched, fragile. His white socks cling to pristine feet, stark against the crimson carpet.

I hear the quickening pulse in his throat, the hitch in his breath. His gaze flickers between my reflection and his own -- as if he's seeing himself for the first time. A bead of sweat trickles down my temple, salt mingling with anticipation.

The thick carpet swallows our steps, holding the secret of what unfolds. Outside, the city breathes -- a distant roar, a beast's pulse syncing with the wild pounding in my veins.

Our eyes lock in the glass -- a fierce dance, electric and charged. The glass doesn't lie -- it accuses. It strips the last layer he thought he could hide behind. No angles. No mercy. Just the body as it is. And what it wants.

Time thickens. The mirror holds it still. Two bodies paused, caught before the plunge. In this moment, the mirror is no longer glass. It is witness. It holds us -- hunter and prey, shadow and light -- poised at the edge of a violent, sacred ritual.

His skin is damp, slick and feral. He knows the shape of what was about to happen -- not in detail, but in essence. The direction of things. The inevitability of it. I catch the unspoken question burning in his gaze: How far? How deep? How much can I give?

I stand still, towering over him. My legs set wide, planted like stone -- blocking the way back, framing what comes next. No more pretending now, no gentleness, no escape route, no apology in the air. Just the brute fact of mass, of will.

The grammar is already written -- by the weight of my presence and the burn of his own want. He shivers once, as if a current or a ripple had passed through him, a premonition. Me -- the force. Him -- the question mark. And now he knows the answer won't be gentle.

VIII. THE WORDS

He needs to know how far he can fall and what it means to fall for me.

I speak to him the way you'd speak to a pup you were training -- low, firm, without affection. Not cruel, but deliberate. Stripped of softness, stripped of doubt. The tone that comes when a man knows he will be obeyed.

And he obeys.

Each word I say drops into him like a stone into still water. He swallows them whole. Not just hears -- takes. They don't bounce off; they land. They nest somewhere under his ribs.

I tell him to crawl. Just that: "Crawl."

Without pause, he drops to all fours. A smooth, fluid movement, like the command has unlocked something he didn't know was inside him. His knees hit the floor. His palms spread wide. His body bent, like someone finding the shape he had needed all along.

I say, "Show me." And he does.

He reaches back and spreads, arching his spine with a moan -- low, strained, the kind that comes not from pain but from release. Not from pleasure either. Closer to the animal that remembers.

He whimpers. He finds his voice. He moves like someone who knows exactly what is expected -- from some bone-deep memory passed down through the sweat and shame of men who have done this before. And he wants it done right.

There is no rebellion in him now. Just performance. Just obedience charged with desperate hope. As if, by going further, by falling deeper, he might finally touch the thing he hasn't dared name -- the thing that has haunted him long before he knew me.

I make him speak. Not just moan. Speak.

I want words -- not his own, but mine. I want them shaped by his tongue, bitten off by his lips, forced through the choke of shame.

He hesitates, just a second. For a moment, it's just breath. His mouth opens, closes. Opens again. His mouth twitches, as if it couldn't quite form the syllables.

His tongue presses against the roof of his mouth, like the shape of the word is too much. As if language itself recoiled from what I asked.

And then it breaks.

A raw whisper, then a tremble, then a burst -- guttural, clumsy, violent in its effort. He gags the first time, like the sentence catches in his throat, like it burns going down the way back up.

But he doesn't stop. He keeps going. He wants to get it out.

He chokes, stammers, fails once, then forces it out. The sentence comes fractured. But real. Something between a plea and a confession.

The words tumble out of him like spit. No poetry. No disguise. Just need and dirt. They come between sobs. Each one heavier than the last. Each one tearing something loose inside him, as if they'd been rotting there for years, waiting to be wrenched free.

He is remembering what he'd tried to forget. Naming it. Owning it. Offering it. He is no longer speaking. He is repeating. He is not the one who says -- he is the one through whom it is said.

Each word is a mark, and also a stitch. They cling to him. Tie him back to the ground. To me. To the place where those words have finally found their master.

The words are mine. The voice is his. The bond is sealed.

IX. THE SCENT

I lean forward, slow, deliberate. Close enough that my groin brushes his face. He flinches at first. Not because of fear, but because it is overwhelming. There is no room to think, no air left to pretend. Just that rank, dense scent -- like iron and salt and skin. No soap. No mask. Just the truth.

Then I reach down, and rub my pants against his nose. He breathes in once, shallow first. His eyelids flutter. His chest rises. The sting hits fast -- sweat, cotton, old musk soaked into fabric.

Then he inhales again, deeper, deliberate, like a monk scenting the first smoke from a funeral pyre, as if the stink itself were sacred. As if shame, distilled into incense, could be sacrament.

I watch it hit his brain -- not as scent, but as memory. Not clean. Not nice. But real. He doesn't fight it. He takes it in. I press harder. He drinks it in like hunger. A tremble in the thighs. His lips part barely, as if to sip the ghost of it. It burns through his sinuses like a confession.

There's a kind of heat that doesn't melt but cuts. A kind that doesn't soothe. That's what he wants now. Not comfort. Not climax. He wants the lash beneath the touch, the verdict beneath the act.

He wants to be told that what he is -- soft, trembling, beautiful -- isn't enough. That he must pay for it. He needs the sentence, the stripping, the proof.

He wants to be burned so that something in him may finally appear. The soul he's never seen. The shadow he's never dared name.

He wants to be hurt -- not for what he did, but for what he is. And in that wound, he hopes to find absolution. Not mercy. Truth.

His eyes turn upward, unfocused and shining, like he tried to see through the smoke. Like it burns something clean through the center of his brain.

And I swear -- in that second -- he looks up at me like at a god. Not a god of kindness. One that demands. One that punishes. And he accepts it. Just worship -- bitter, ecstatic, total. I know, without a word, that he will take anything now.

Because he thinks he deserves it.

It has moved beyond heat now. Beyond lust. Beyond even dominance. This is conquest.

There is no ecstasy without offense. No worship without exposure. No salvation without a scorch. He has stepped beyond innocence now -- not fallen, but offered.

Like something sacred must be marked to mean anything.

Let him be ruined. That is how he will shine.

X. THE PUNISHMENT

There's a kind of high in undoing him. A sacred calm in watching the angel fold -- not out of fear, but because the lie finally broke. And I was the one who broke it.

His youth, his skin, the way he smells like soap and fear and springtime. That is just the surface. A beautiful trigger. What burns inside me comes from somewhere else. Deeper, older. Over the boy-shaped specter of all I'd never been allowed to claim.

It isn't even about him, though. It's about the goddamn world. The one that watched me grow and laughed. That taught me to speak, then sneered at my voice. That invited me to the table only to mock how I held the fork. That world of manners, credentials, passwords, and degrees. The one that smiled politely when I passed, and then locked the door behind me.

I think about the office, the hallway, the dinner tables I'd never been welcome at. The gym mirrors that don't lie, and the eyes that did. I thought about the teachers, the managers, the boys in pastel shirts who sniffed when I walked by. The whispers in school corridors, the wary glances in office meetings. The shame of being too much.

All of it has built up over years, pressed into bone. And now I have a body to pour it into. Not out of revenge, not really -- but because there is no other place for it to go.

So now I make them pay inside his skin. I make them beg. I make them kneel. I make them swallow. I make them choke. I punish them.

Now I fuck them all back, through him.

Every breath he takes is theirs. Every moan, a verdict. Every stretch of hole, every slap of sweat is a message sent back: look at me now -- the thick one, the loud one, the body that never fit, me -- the brute, the mutt, the one who spoke wrong, smelled wrong, was wrong.

I'm still around. And under me -- a prize. A boy of twenty, maybe. Sleek, clean, carved from youth. A trembling cub, too tight to lie, too soft to resist. A stray doe cornered in the dusk. Panting, sniffing, drunk on me. Dumb with the need I've woken.

No one else had ever looked at me like this before.

Not my father, not my boss, not the woman I almost married. Not the men I'd fucked before -- quick and silent, more transaction than encounter. Not in the elevator. Not at the checkout. Not even at the gym, where bodies flex but never mean it.

He stares like one who has stopped running. Not because he can't, but because there is nothing to run away from anymore. No words left, just the shimmer of sweat along the ridge of his back. His gaze doesn't plead. It doesn't flatter. It accepts.

I don't move. I just look at him. It's the moment when the flame dims, but the brand is done. I let my fingers trail down, just to feel the wreck I made. A smear of sweat, the heat of punishment still rising from him like steam off an altar stone.

I cup the base of his neck. Thumb on the pulse. It jumps -- fast, but steady. He's not afraid anymore. He leans slightly into the touch -- not as a plea, but as permission. As if to say: you may finish me.

XI. THE PROOF

In that moment, I am no longer the brute, the oaf, the locker-room ghost. He worships me -- not with flowers or words or folded knees. But with his open mouth, his exposed ass bent in hunger. This is his offering. His devotion.

The mass burns sweet. Here, in this bare room, I rule, stripped of light and time. He looks up at me like I was the only gravity that mattered. Not a man -- a force. His ram. His bull. His totem. His beast. He is the altar, and I am the priest.

The rite hurts good. A trembling, leaking rite. It burns. It bleeds. It cleanses. Not with grace, but with truth.

He is cracked wide open. Not from damage -- but from revelation. From the shock of realizing that what he had feared, he now wanted. That what he had been told to avoid, he now offered. That the place he had sworn no one would ever touch -- was now the one that ached to be taken. And I was the one who would take it.

He is on his knees, and I tower above him.

And so finally I claim his mouth.

Not with a kiss, but with the claim of dominance. The shaft presses unyieldingly against his lips. They open and wrap tight, and trembling, around what I give. And I give all of it. Not just length -- but weight, scent, claim around it.

No hesitation, no panic. Just the natural order of things.

He takes it as if this was what his lips had been built for all along -- not for speech, not for protest, but for this quiet, sacred swallowing. He takes it like a wound takes salt. Like fire takes wood. Like he's afraid to drown but more afraid not to taste.

I melt slow, inch by inch. I let him work. His jaw slackens, finds its groove. Gags once. Swallow again. Breathe through the burn. That's the rhythm.

He is learning me with his mouth -- as a baby learns a breast, as a monk learns a prayer. I let him learn. The angles, the strain, the pressure. He learns me not like a student, but like a man building shelter in a storm.

His mouth is velvet and fire, greed and worship. Every pull, every contraction is an act of homage.

Each motion is deeper. More certain. More eager. More desperate. He suckles from me like he was starving. Not just the taste, but the act. The submission.

His hand drifts lower, almost without thinking -- not from strategy, but from need. His fingers find my sack, heavy and humid, thick with the heat of everything yet to come.

He cradles it gently at first, as if weighing a relic -- something crude and sacred at once. Then he grasps it, thumbs tracing the grain of skin, the slow pull of gravity, the pulse within. It's not a tease. It's reverence. The kind you give to the center of a thing -- to the root, to the source.

He rolls them slowly, like prayer beads. Like something he isn't quite sure he's allowed to hold, but won't let go. Not tender -- but precise. Like a boy testing the shape of what owns him now.

I am up. He is down. I am the one who sets the pace, who chooses the measure, who fixes the price. And he -- he accepts it without a word. He doesn't protest. It isn't part of the deal.

This isn't sex. This is proof. In his mouth, I become fact. Not a man. A result. A cause. He proves it with his tongue, with the wet noise of surrender.

He grips my thighs like rails, like anchor points. Not for power, but for focus. He works for it -- not with the impatience of lust, but with the full weight of purpose.

His youth, his body, his pride -- everything he has is now angled toward one thing: the grace of my release. He wants the finish. Not just the seed, but what it means to take it.

That is his goal, his finish line. To bring me there. I see it in his eyes -- the need to be the cause of what comes loose. To be the reason I let go.

I don't say a word. That isn't the language we speak.

I slap him.

Not to punish. But because it is the only form of gratitude I have left. It is how I speak when words mean too little. My palm hits his cheek -- hard, fast, open. It echoes in the room like a seal being stamped.

That's how I give back. Rough, raw, unfiltered.

I haven't promised tenderness. I have never mentioned comfort. Softness was never part of the deal. He knows that. He came for something else. He has asked for the truth, so I give him mine. All of it.

I mark him with piss and pride -- not just his body, but whatever soul is in there. I don't just leave a trace. I carve it in. With claw and groin, with everything I have.

But he doesn't just endure -- he wants it. Not despite the slap -- because of it. Because it names him. Because it cuts him out of boyhood and offers him something harder, sharper: the knowledge of what he can take.

XII. THE FUSION

Down there on the carpet, his breath still stuttering, his limbs slack from what has just happened -- he looks shocked. But not broken. Transfigured.

My socks are now across his face, as if anchoring him to something real. The stink, the weight, the salt -- they grind him, remind him of his natural place, of his sacred duty.

There, in that exact pose, something shifts. He reaches into some deep register neither of us can name. A vastness. Something ancient, almost holy. A force that makes no distinction between desire and sacrifice.

His frame -- athletic, young, absurdly beautiful -- now feels symbolic. As if he were standing in for something larger than himself. As if he knew it.

He doesn't cry. He simply lays there, exposed and silent, like a lamb on the altar. Like he knows exactly what he's done by offering himself. And why it matters. And I -- the priest of rut -- hold the flame.

I lower myself onto him, heavy and whole, letting my full weight press him into the floor. I stretch with all I am, all I carry. Slow and sure, flesh to flesh, my heat folding over his like a second skin. I cover him fully, completely, like nightfall smothering a flame.

I sear along his spine, pressed against him -- two animals sweating into each other, locked in a furnace. There is no more stance to strike, no more air to take. Our shapes blur into a single rhythm of grunts and pulse and hiss. Hair against skin. Friction and fury.

I burn, he steams. He is smooth, I am rough. I am the Yang, he is the Yin.

I pin his hips like borders, fingers working with blunt patience. I stretch him open, to tame the hole that was calling, now begging to be caught. His ring pulses around my finger, raw and stunned, but willing. I stay there -- hand buried, heat bricked in around us -- until he stops shaking and starts offering.

The gate shame had locked tight for years slowly opens. Not gently. Not easily. It takes the sheer mass of who I am. It isn't violence. It is firmness. It is knowledge. His whole body tenses around the fact of me, clamps down like it wanted to refuse and remember at once.

I keep pressing -- not rushed, not wild -- but slow, relentless, primal, the way mountains move. I am claiming ground that had never known a name. The place no one had dared to look. He had never been entered like this. But more than that -- he had never been seen, nor felt, from the inside.

Each inch forward feels like theft, like marking something sacred with soot. I carve a presence inside him that no one will ever erase. He clenches hard -- tight, scared maybe, stunned certainly -- then slicks, then gives.

His hands reach back without thinking, like caught between worship and storm. He doesn't know what to grab, doesn't know where to ground himself. So he bites the air -- mouth open, no words -- as if the gasp alone might carry him through.

Clawing at the meat of my ass, he writhes under the pressure, lost in rapture between pain and need. And then -- driven by the stretch, the shock, the pleasure too large to hold -- he scratches.

He digs in, hard, sudden, frantic, raking deep. It is not anger, but euphoria. And I feel it -- bright and brutal.

The boy is gone. The boy is beast.

I sink into him now. His muscles relax and let me glide through. The yield isn't weakness. It is instinct surrendering to fate. It's gravity. The kind that drags stars inward until they shine.

XIII. THE VERDICT

For a moment, before the shudder tears through him, time stops. His chest rises, his eyes wide like a prophet seeing the flame too late. He knows it's coming.

I make him cum hard, and not with mercy. I force his body to testify, to spill the truth. I push until there is no more distance between what he feels and what he releases. I watch it erupt from him like a scream that has found its shape in liquid.

A white arc shoots from him, not timed, but torn. Primitive. Irrefutable. He spasms. His whole frame convulses in a single shudder. His seed hits the floor. His knees slide. His guts twist under the irresistible rush of pleasure. It is the naked verdict of a body that can't lie anymore.

He doesn't just moan, he wails like birth. It is a fracture through the marrow -- the kind of sound that doesn't beg for mercy but announces that something irreversible has begun. Not like pain -- but like revelation.

Pressure builds, and now my own threshold snaps. I drive even deeper. I anchor myself inside him and let go the only way I knew how: full, brutal, silent. The kind of orgasm that doesn't blink. That doesn't leave room for questions.

The grunt that tears from me is low, guttural, crowned -- like a wild boar in rut finally lets loose. It comes from the belly, from the groin. I empty everything into him, every ounce. It isn't a climax, but a flood. Like a dam failing. I pour into him like judgement, like prophecy.

His body surges under mine, his belly lifting as if to catch it mid-flood. His eyes shut, not in fear, but to keep something in, to trap the howl inside his ribs. And yet, he doesn't break. He lets it happen.

He trembles from magnitude. He has been hit by a substance too dense for metaphor. What I pour into him is not just semen, it is truth -- molten and merciless, absolute, unrelenting. Like lead turned liquid and made holy. Like something forged, final. Something thick as blood and just as binding.

It is an unction. Not clean, not Christian. It is the black milk of Pan himself. The stuff the primal gods drank The ones with fur and smoke in their breath. He has suckled from that place now. He has tasted what was never meant to be spoken. He has absorbed it. He has received it.

He is breathing shallow, skin flushed, mouth open in that stunned, unspeaking way a man gets when he's seen something too close, too real. I stay inside him, watching the shape of him shift under the weight of what we've done. His body is wrecked -- but not ruined. It has taken the fire. And now, it glows.

My truth is in his gut now, deep in the place no soap could reach. What we have done is not ritual by choice, but by nature. It is about revealing him -- to himself, to me, to whatever watched from the dark.

The scent of my release will fade. But this -- this passage, this possession -- will echo in his body, remembered by the bones. And every time he feels it stir inside him, he will remember what has moved through him: not a man, not a brute -- but the beast made god

And he knows it. Even in the daze. Even with his mouth slack and his eyes unfocused. He lays there breathing in what he has become. Not a boy anymore. Something else. Touched. Consecrated.

He turns his head. He looks at me. Clear and bone-deep. We don't kiss. We dont speak. But I nod. Once. Not in apology, not with victory, not with mercy. Not in thanks. But in recognition.

XIV. THE TRACE

Even if he walks out in silence, he won't walk out the same. He might pull his briefs back up, gather his jeans, zip the bag, smooth his hair. He might slip down the hallway like nothing happened.

But something in him has changed. The posture might return. The voice. The casual glance. Underneath, the mark pulses. His body now bears something it didn't before: the weight of what entered and doesn't ask to leave.

He'll go back to his clean-boy life. The gym bag slung over one shoulder. The laptop clutched like a shield. A girlfriend maybe -- who waits, who wonders, who smells something unfamiliar on his skin. But he won't tell her. He won't tell anyone. Not because he's ashamed -- but because he knows no one would understand.

He'll shower twice, scrub harder than usual. Hot water, strong soap, a towel rough against his skin. But the trace won't lift. Not fully. It will hum like a secret hymn beneath the rituals of daily life. In the gym. On the subway. At the dinner table. In the silence beneath the sheets, where his hand hesitates, then slides.

It will speak to him -- not in sentences, not in guilt -- but in presence. What passed through him won't vanish. It will breathe under the skin, deep where language stops. And at night, beneath the bed, something will whisper. Just this: he has been taken. And the gods remember.

There are no words for what passed between us. Only echoes. Only the throb beneath the zipper that won't be soothed.

The temple is bare now. The rite has ended. He's gone. The door may have closed softly behind him. No footsteps echo. No scent lingers in the air like before.

But I remain, and the room -- though silent -- is not empty. Something stays. Beneath the floorboards, something growls. Not loud. Not angry. Just present. Just real. A residue in the bone of the place, like the scent after thunder.

It isn't the boy's presence that haunts the space. It's the act. The sound that came from his ribs. The shape he took. The truth that passed through us both. It hangs here -- like musk ground into stone. The heat is gone, but the memory of it weighs in the air. Something watched. Something knows.

That sound still lingers, still throbs in the silence. That sound of flesh meeting flesh. Of groin claiming groin. Of a grunt too old for language. The kind of sound carved into caves, long before ink and scripture.

What touched him doesn't stop with him. It passed through. From him into me. From me into the room. It left a mark neither of us can name, but both of us now bear. This wasn't a fuck. This was a rite. This was a name given without a word.

XV. THE HUNGER

They say boys want what's soft. A warm bed. A gentle hand. A clean smile in the morning. They say they want comfort -- the blanket, the kiss, the caress that asks nothing. A love that doesn't bite. That's the story they feed them. The one in the magazines. The one behind every wedding photo and mother's wish.

But when the dusk settles in their bones -- when the world turns down and the air gets thick -- something else begins to stir. A hunger. Something no one taught them to name.

It's not kindness they crave then. It's the call of the drum. Of the pulse. The ache beneath the belt. They feel it not in their hearts, but in the back of their teeth. In the twitch of their thighs. In the hunger that doesn't ask for love, but for law. The old law. The one written before the first god who forgave. The one that doesn't soothe -- it claims.

They want the ones who take. The gods who never wore robes. The gods who speak through pressure, not prayer. The horned. The hooved. The ones made of smoke and sweat and bark. Through the grip of a hand, the thrust of a hip, the grunt that says: this is yours now.

The boys don't talk about it. But their bodies remember. Their bodies know. It's in the way they arch, the way they beg without words, the way they fall when touched right -- not in love, but in recognition.

And me? I've seen it. I've heard it in their gasps. Felt it in their surrender. Smelled it when the fear turned to heat. I've seen the truth hiding behind their civility, waiting to be named. And when it rises -- when it finally wakes -- it doesn't ask. It feeds the hunger.

And I just smile. Because the beast has fed.