|« PREV||INDEX||NEXT »|
|Best arrived the next morning to find Det. Frayne on the balcony, surveying the scene below with sober mien. The front yard was filled with policeman, plainclothes and in uniform, doing indefinable police things. The news crews were also on hand, their reporters speaking with mannered intensity into the cameras. Dieter's remains had been removed. Best asked questions on the way up to the residence, so by the time he arrived at the front door, he was up to speed: Dieter had been found dead in the circular driveway, some forty feet from the building.
He greeted Det. Frayne, who remembered him. "Were you here last night, Mr. Keynes?"
"No, I stayed at a hotel."
"Oh? And why was that?"
"John threw us all out. He's a little capricious that way."
"Threw you out? Do you mean everyone in the household?"
"He wanted to be alone with his new boyfriend."
"That would be the deceased."
"I see. No one here seems to know anything."
"Like I said, he threw us out."
Best would find out later that John had been ravenously sexual all night long and, after the zombies straggled back in at all hours, he had fucked the entire household unrelentingly until the police arrived in the morning. Dieter's remains were reported by the building manager, though all the zombies had walked past them on their way in.
Det. Frayne continued to question him in a bored manner, his attention obviously elsewhere. John appeared from one of the bedrooms, proudly naked, and joined them. He looked menacingly at Best.
"You seem distracted, detective," Best finally said.
"There's a mystery to solve here. And I confess I'm stumped."
"What mystery? He committed suicide, didn't he?" Best glared at John, who ignored him.
"So it would seem. A fall from a great height. The question I have is, what did he fall from?"
He pointed across the courtyard. "His body was a full forty feet from the building. What did he jump off of? There's nothing out there."
Best pondered this. "Are you suggesting that he was thrown?" He gave John another look. This time, John looked back.
Det. Frayne snorted. "With a catapult, maybe."
He left them and went about interviewing the fuck zombies, none of whom had seen anything. He was curious why no one had reported the dead body even though twenty of them must have walked past it. Obviously, Best thought, Frayne didn't know gay men. A cock up the ass superseded any adult responsibility.
Callen came out and stared wordlessly at John, awaiting instructions.
"Det. Frayne is suspicious," John whispered. "Neutralize him."
Callen nodded and left.
Best and John stared at each other.
"Must have been a hot one," Best said finally.
John grinned, a broad, toothy, Cheshire cat grin. "You have no idea," he said with barely-contained elation.
John was ravenous all that week. He fucked incessantly. Best did all he could to stay out of the way, which wasn't so difficult with John battening onto whatever fuck zombie happened by. He sent them out into the city to scout new talent. The flow of beautiful faces and bodies through the residence increased enormously, barely satisfying John's gluttony. The orgy never stopped.
One night, Best was doing the books in the library when John came in. He was covered with some kind of slick fluid and was breathing heavily. His face bore a satisfied smile.
"Tea time?" Best said without interest.
John leaned against the wall and said nothing. Then, he emitted a piratical laugh.
Best continued to work, jotting notes on his spreadsheets. "You haven't killed anybody else yet. Losing your touch?"
"You're trying to dampen my happiness, Best. Don't even try." "That weird power of yours must frustrate you terribly at times. Can't kill people when you want to."
John froze. "Power? I don't know what you mean."
"The one that prevents your sex partners from being harmed. I assume Dieter went out of range. Of course, you can't throw them all out the window. Det. Frayne would figure it out eventually. Oh, that's right: we don't have to worry about Det. Frayne any more." He picked up a slip of paper from the desk. "A new entry for the accounts. Jessica Frayne's tuition to Harvard. I'm told her parents couldn't afford to send her after she was accepted. Generous of us to step in and take up the slack."
John said nothing.
"What do you suppose the range is? Of your power? The radius?" He waited for John to answer, but got none. "Since you've at times sexually excited the entire household without even being in the same room with them, I'm guessing about thirty feet. What do you think?"
John lunged forward with supernatural speed and grabbed the front of Best's shirt. He pushed him against the wall and held his face very close. "So, you figured it out, did you, little Best? Such a clever lad."
"They all would have if you hadn't turned their brains to mud. It's pretty obvious." Best tried to look calm, though he was terrified. He had spoken out of turn.
"You know, Best, I realize now that I've neglected you for too long."
He tore the front off of Best's shirt with one easy pull. "You've had far to much time to sit around and think. It's unhealthy."
"I don't want to, John."
"It doesn't matter what you want. It only matters what I want."
"No!" He struggled pointlessly in John's grip. "I don't want to!"
"Oh, yes, someone who'll resist me. It's been so long. Fight me, Best. Please, fight me every step of the way."
And Best did fight him. His resistance fired John to new heights of invention. He concocted several techniques with Best that he would use for the rest of his life. Best's perfect little body was a treasure trove. He worked on him for hours.
Best held his own admirably, fighting to maintain his independence of thought, his individuality. But nothing human could resist John forever. Slowly, Best began to be pulled under by the tide of John's passion. John's cock, seeming to fill the entirety of Best's insides pulsated with pleasure such as even Best, who had been had by John before, had never known. Best moaned deeply, clutching at the colossal organ with his anal muscles, even knowing that the ecstasy would lead to his enslavement. The pleasure was so very great. Soon the pleasure mattered more than anything else. After a couple of hours, he cheerfully submitted to anything John wanted. Best's free will eroded one orgasm at a time, until he was nothing but an undulating animal howling with the joy of it, embracing his annihilation. Eventually, all evidence of Best's conscious mind vanished. He grunted, he drooled like an idiot, he emitted primate sounds like a rutting gorilla. John towered over him, pounding his chest and roaring with his own power. Best feared him, then Best craved him, and finally Best loved him.
It went on all night.
When he was finally satisfied that there was nothing left of Best's free will, John rolled off of him and stared at the ceiling. Immediately, the emptiness returned. He knew he must have seemed vibrant to his zombies all that week, full of life, overflowing with sex. But it had not seemed that way to him. Every perverse sexual act was an attempt to stave off the incursion of the great darkness that now haunted his every moment, that hovered around the edges of his perceptions. That yawning maw was ready to scoop him up whenever he let down his guard and swallow him into the black, bottomless pit of its gullet. But he could hold it at bay forever if necessary. He was the god of sex.
And then he realized that, with the elimination of Best's acerbic rejoinders from his life, another bastion against the darkness had been torn down.
It pulled closer.
Next to him, Best lay in a daze, barely conscious, stupefied with pleasure. John was the greatest lover in the world, in history. He loved John! He knew he would do anything for him. His former self, the aloof, sarcastic Best, was a fading memory. He reached out to that memory, grabbed it, held it to him. He would not let go of himself so easily. But he knew he could not hold out forever.
Please, Mr. Bel, it has to be soon, he opined silently. Please make it soon.
Filming began on Carson's sex epic, John's Slaves. John had made several trips to Europe and the far east during the casting phase and had come up with an incredible cast. Best thought he had seen the most beautiful men in the world since his association with John, but these newcomers dwarfed any sex partners John had yet acquired, men so beautiful it was on them like a vocation. They lived in perpetual joy, the joy of being loved by everyone who saw them, a joy augmented immeasurably by John's arrival in their lives. The residence was packed with bobbling round asses and pecs like the screens of televisions. Faces only seen in dreams. Cocks heretofore glimpsed only in erotic drawings. The condo was a polyglot cacophony of different languages and exotic accents.
Carson had decided to do the crowd scene first while he had the entire cast present and do the one-on-ones and three-ways and four-ways later on. John had decided at the last moment to feature Best in the film, an unwelcome imposition that Carson initially refused to accept.
Carson moaned on the table as John pumped his ass, slowly and luxuriously. The cast and crew stood around and watched, all of them moaning and rubbing their crotches. There had been an artistic disagreement over a particular moment. Carson had dug his feet in, so John resolved the conflict in his usual way. Arguments didn't last long on this set. John always got his way. This was a very happy set. Everyone was well-paid, fucked and contented. Best was sure many of them would choose to stay when the shoot was over.
"Oh, yeah, fuck him, John," someone said.
"Nobody's got your management style," Best said. Carson moaned and writhed under the power of John's cock. John made him suffer, held back the great release of pleasure for an agonizingly long time. When he finally tired of this sport, they orgasmed gigantically, Carson spewing jism all over his hard stomach. As always, John's cum overflowed the confined of his partner's large intestine and splattered on the table. The observers, all under John's total domination, came simultaneously, their voices rising in a chorus of ecstatic groaning. John laughed a hard, harsh laugh and withdrew himself.
"Okay, everybody, let's get back to work," he said amiably. Everyone, stoop-shouldered, returned to their appointed positions except Carson, who lay stunned on the table. His assistant, a blindingly beautiful Indonesian boy, took over the shoot. Everyone on the set was John's slave. It was very important to him to have total control over everyone involved with the production. So, needless to say, everyone on the set was utterly gorgeous. They cheerfully did whatever he bade them do, on camera and off.
The orgy scene began with John and Best. Carson had wanted to use one of the other performers, one lovelier than Best, but John had insisted. He had kept Best close to him for a couple of weeks.
Best stood next to him and waited for the director to roll film. He stared up adoringly at John, at his mass and beauty. He loved John. He would do anything for him, anything to maintain access to the pleasure. Best's memory plagued him at times, reminding him of a previous self, an independent, caustic Best who made the world do things his way. But that Best was a very long time ago. He felt a certain distant melancholy at the recollection, but the shattering pleasures John inflicted on him every day always washed those bad thoughts away.
They rolled. Filming was a very tedious process, involving many delays while actors waited for lights to be changed and while Carson created close-ups of people's asses and cocks, resplendent in the elegant lighting. Normally, everyone present would be terribly bored, but not on a John Avery shoot. Everybody was fully erect all the time, and John spent any open time fucking whoever was at hand. The rented soundstage was replete with food and drink: fruit, cheeses, breads, pastries, prime cuts of meat, juices and soft drinks. It was the best party any of them had ever been to.
During a break, Andrew came and got Best. "Telephone for you," he said.
"Who would be calling you?" John said in astonishment. He was always amazed when a fuck zombie showed any connection to the outside world. What could the outside world possibly have to offer anyone who had experienced him?
"Just business stuff," Best said, his legs wobbly from the excesses of John's attentions. "I'll take care of it."
He went to take the call.
John fucked a trio of his new costars--blond, brunette, redhead--while Carson did a careful study of Rupert's butt, catching the arcing contours of it for, well, posterity. It occurred to John that it was right to capture these beautiful youths on film, for their beauty was short-lived and doomed to wither away. Only his beauty would not fade, only he would be eternally fresh and youthful. He would remain behind while they all faded into the mists of time.
The mouth of emptiness yawned. The darkness hovered at the corners of the room, waiting to close in, to take him. But he would never let it. His power would always counterbalance its power. He fucked his compatriots with greater intensity, much to their delight. The darkness receded.
When it was time to resume shooting, Best had not returned. John sent Andrew to fetch him. After a few minutes, during which John received a blow job from a stunning Ethiopian boy name Josef, Andrew returned.
"He's gone. He's not in the residence."
Everyone looked at everybody else.
"Did he tell anyone where he was going?" Carson asked irritably. Everyone shook their heads.
"Well, we can't proceed without Best," John said.
"Oh, yeah, right," said Carson. "Like his ass is crucial to the plot. Just fuck someone else."
John frowned. He did not like having Best off on his own.
John watched the moon makes its transit over the silvery ocean. It was the time of night he had come to dread, when the residence was asleep, all his zombies exhausted by their daily duties or by his insatiable sexual demands. He was left to his own resources, something he tried to avoid at all times. Of course, it was a simple matter to wake someone up and start fucking them, but his despond was too deep at that hour for such simple remedies.
The darkness around him masked a greater darkness, a darkness not of light but of content, an emptiness, a void. It was the void all men must face when they cease their ceaseless activities: let the plates tumble off their sticks, let the juggling balls fall. It was the nothingness behind life that people devoted their lives to avoiding. But he could not avoid it, for he was the king of life and therefore on top of it and beyond it at once.
He was lord of all he surveyed. So he was yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. So he would be tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that. Everyone he touched he enslaved, and so he always would, if not by intent, then by nature of what he was. No man could fail to love him. He was rich beyond his wildest dreams and growing richer. The authority of the law had reached out for him and he had passed through its fingers like smoke. He was without limits.
Ah, there was the rub. For a life lived without limits was a life in the wasteland, a life where nothing resisted, nothing answered back. And his life, he knew from Mr. Bel, was going to be very long indeed. His body could endure forever, but could his mind?
He needed help. But obviously, no therapist could assist him. How to tell someone the problems of being a god among men? The isolation, the elevation, the loneliness, the joy.
He heard the word and balked: him? Lonely? He should go back into the house and fuck someone. That would silence these voices in his head. At least, it usually did.
He had sent Dieter off into that void, Dieter who he had loved. The boy protested his expulsion from the world, but so did everyone. John would never be expelled; he would be here forever, fucking, dominating, expanding in power. But Dieter was gone, perhaps entirely gone, nonexistent.
But no, that couldn't be. Surely Mr. Bel, whatever he was, represented some more complex spiritual realm operating beyond this one. Surely Dieter had passed on to something else. John had sent him there. John had tried desperately to send some of the others there as well. It gave him a thrilling sense of dominance to try to kill. But what Best once called his "terribly frustrating" power prevented him from carrying out his homicidal intentions. And Best was right, he couldn't throw them all out the window. And yet, his murder had gone unprotested. What was the line from Browning? "So far, God has not said a word." Not to him, certainly. He would need to find new ways to kill. That was how he would connect himself to the Afterlife that he could never enter. He would be its gatekeeper. But how would he make it satisfying if he could not be in close proximity at the time of death? He wanted to see them expire, to watch the light go out of their eyes.
He shivered. It was the first unpleasant physical sensation he had felt since his transformation. It was not a reaction to temperature because all temperatures suited his body equally. It was a tremor of the soul.
He stood and walked back into the living room. He had not turned on any lights, which probably would have been a good idea. The furniture and expensive objects stood out each in stark relief in the moonlight, each an entity unto itself in the universe, independent, separate, unaware of him and his conquests. He stood and stared at them, abashed by their inanimate indifference. Then, surprising himself, he picked up a chair and smashed it against the wall. He had no fear of reprisals for this; it was his castle and he could do as he liked. It was his world and he could do as he liked, anytime, anywhere. He we utterly free.
He picked up a marble erotic sculpture and hurled it against the wall. It did not shatter. Without any connection to his emotions, like an automaton, he began to demolish the room, tearing the upholstery, breaking the shelves, ripping the paintings. He longed to destroy some books, to gut the bindings and send the pages flying, but there were no books in his domain.
He ran from room to room, breaking and tearing, destroying it all. Zombies were roused from their sleep and cowered under the covers in the face of his wrath. He began to bellow, to roar with a savage, inarticulate squalling that rang through the building, generated by the superhuman power in his chest and lungs. The zombies all emerged from their rooms to watch. He smashed his fists through walls and ground stone artifacts into powder with his bare hands.
Finally, his terror expended, he collapsed in the living room and wept. The zombies hovered around him disconsolately, not sure how to respond to this unprecedented display.
After a time, the tears stopped. He remained pulled into fetal position on the floor for a time. Then he stood up, went to the phone, and dialed 777.
"I lack companionship, Mr. Bel."
Mr. Bel roared with jolly laughter. "You can't be serious, John. Lack companionship? You may have any man in the world as your companion, as your adoring companion. Even your Carson and Kevin have violated their own natures to love you. Lack companionship?"
"Those people aren't my companions. They're my slaves. They have no independent will. I've taken that away from them. They don't have any choice but to love me."
Mr. Bel was silent for a moment. "And you want someone in your life who has a choice?"
"Simply resolved. Just don't subjugate them sexually."
"That won't work, Mr. Bel. I will subjugate them. It's inevitable. My hormones get racing and my cock gets hard and all bets are off. I'll do anything to anyone. I destroy anyone who gets near me. It's my nature."
"So you might say."
There was a silence which Mr. Bel made no effort to fill.
"I want a mate, Mr. Bel."
"I want an equal. I want you to make me a partner. Someone like me, but who'll take the passive role. I'm the god of sex. I want the god of love for my consort."
Mr. Bel sputtered. "Consort! Oh, John, I'm afraid it's impossible."
John glared at him. "I don't think impossible is in your dictionary, Mr. Bel."
"Oh, I assure you it is, John. This is a universe of laws. Laws that can be bent but not violated. Operating within them is... part of the fun."
"This is a universe of nothingness. Emptiness is just underneath the surface of everything. I've seen it."
"A life whose focus is entirely in the material world, as your is, will produce such fantasies. But that is all they are. You are part of something greater, John, I promise you that."
"I want my right mate, Mr. Bel."
Mr. Bel was deeply sad. "John, I'm sorry, it's not possible."
"I'm going insane, Mr. Bel. I realized it tonight. My mind."
"Hm. Yes, your mind is not as durable as your physical form, that is true. This is a problem I have faced with other... clients."
"You've created others like me?"
"No, no, not like you. You are something new and unique. But there are other... gifts that can be granted. The Midas Touch, the Sight, the Orgulous Cloud, the Whirling Blades of Lamentation. But none like you. There can not be another like you, John."
"As I just said, the universe has laws."
John sat and looked out at the sea. "Then I'm doomed."
Mr. Bel was thoughtful. "I tell you what, John. I'll see what I can do."
John lifted his head. "Really?"
"Yes, really. As I said, the laws cannot be broken, but they are flexible."
"I'd be so grateful, Mr. Bel."
"Yes, well," said Mr. Bel, "thank me when you get it."
Mr. Bel departed in his usual nubiferous way and was not heard from again. John returned to his life with a renewed sense of hope. He fucked his slaves with restored passion and his performance in the film, Carson assured him, was his best work ever. The crowd scenes were complete and now the smaller-scale shooting was underway. John spent his days in peaceful sexual congress, giving his costars more pleasure in a day of filming than most men experienced in a lifetime of seeking satiation.
The final leg of shooting was the one-on-one encounter that was to start off the movie. John had selected Best to be the subject of his attentions in this sequence over Carson's objections. It amused John to watch Carson fume and flounce over these minor casting decisions as if his artistic integrity was being compromised. He had never quite come to terms with the fact that he was just a pornographer. He still thought he was making something great, which in a certain sense he was.
John slept the night before the final shoot, something he needed to do rarely. He woke up with a fuck zombie under each arm. He rose and showered attended by two more zombies who scrubbed him, polished his nails and dried and styled his hair. He emerged from the residence and his driver, a French boy named Etienne whose luscious ass was gloriously displayed in his leather thong chauffeur's uniform, opened the door for him. He was driven over to the soundstage in his limousine and entered refreshed and ready to work.
Best was not present. This was unusual, for no one in the residence ever kept John waiting. John instructed Carson to call home and find him. After a time, Carson reported that Best and Callen had not been seen since the previous night. This was curious. John was certain that clever, knowledgeable little Best had been fully enslaved and rendered harmless. This inexplicable behavior was ominous.
Carson asked if now they could substitute another actor. John reluctantly agreed.
Shooting went as usual, though John was not concentrating. His mind ranged outwards, wondering what had become of Best and his lover. No one seemed to notice any diminution in his performance.
At break, he wandered about restlessly. He instructed Andrew to call regularly to see if his two wayward servants had appeared. But they had not. While Carson set up another shot, John wandered into the dark recesses of the stage looking for someone to pass the time with.
"Mr. Avery. John... " said an unmistakable voice.
John turned. Mr. Bel stood in the dark next to an open door from which bright light poured. John's spatial sense was affronted. This door surely had not been there before. It was on an exterior wall, and yet there seemed to be a room beyond it where no room could have been. He walked forward tentatively.
"I have something for you, John." He turned and walked into the light. John, his heart leaping in his chest, followed.
He found himself in a large white room, very scientific looking, like a laboratory. A broad plate glass window looked out on a smaller room without features or furniture, a blank place with mirrored walls. No one was in the room. However, an overweight, gray-haired woman with a pinched, fox-like face sat at a control panel in the observation booth.
"This is my associate, Ms. Asmo," Mr. Bel said.
"Hello," John said. Ms. Asmo ignored him, turning back to her bank of glittering lights and gray buttons.
"Please stand here, John."
"Have you done it, Mr. Bel? Have you done what I asked?"
"Please stand and observe, John. This won't take long." He leaned over a control panel and pushed a button. "Bring in the first subject," he said.
In the next room a door, invisible until it slid open, revealed another unlit room beyond. From it emerged Best. He was naked.
"Are you ready, Mr. Keynes?" Mr. Bel said over the intercom.
Best, who clearly could not see them, shouted, "Yes! Yes! God, do it!"
"As you choose," Mr. Bel said.
Best stood and stared at the ceiling, expectant. John felt a pressure in the atmosphere, like a tornado was nearby. It squeezed his temples and swelled his sinuses. Best began to tremble. And to change.
His body elongated weirdly, becoming taller and thinner. As his shape stretched, like cookie dough being pulled by a cook, he broadened. His muscles swelled. He bulged with new strength even as his cock expanded to colossal size. His face flowed like thick oil. His body expanded with sinews and sex. His thighs pulsated with power, expanding even as his legs grew longer. His cock grew even larger than John's, impossibly, unusably large, the most enormous cock in human history.
"Oh, yes!" Best shouted. "Oh, God, don't stop! It's beautiful! Oh, God, power! Power!"
In seconds, he was transformed. He stood before John beautiful, massively muscled, irresistibly sexual. He turned to the mirrors and regarded himself with awe and delight. He flexed his arm, watching the immense biceps rise up hugely. He sucked in his stomach and admired the huge convexity of his chest. He ran his hands across his pectorals. He became instantly hard and climaxed within seconds. And within seconds he was hard again.
John pressed himself against the glass, licking it with his tongue. His cock was fully erect and pressed against the pane also. He had never desired anyone with such intensity, not even on the first night of his transformation. He wanted Best, he loved Best!
A roar of pleasure rumbled up from inside him and shook him. He came stupendously, splattering his jism on the wall, a seemingly endless river of jism, splashing down around his knees and soaking the bland beige carpeting.
"Oh, yes," he sighed. "Oh, yes. Oh, thank you, Mr. Bel. Thank you, thank you." He didn't understand he was merely experiencing what he did to other people routinely. This was what it was like to gaze upon John Avery for the first time.
"Don't thank me yet, John. Observe."
Another unseen door opened on the opposite side of the room. Callen emerged. He saw Best and stood spellbound. He ran across the room and touched him, running his thick-knuckled, masculine hands across Best's pulsating muscularity. Best ignored him, riveted by his own far-more-attractive image in the mirror. Already he was making people into worshippers, mindless sex slaves to be used and discarded.
Then, Callen gasped. He backed away from Best, his body convulsing. And then he changed. His body swelled with power, muscles popping out like expanding balloons, his cock becoming huge. His face trembled and shifted, becoming stronger-looking, more masculine, utterly desirable. He grew taller until he towered even over the new Best, a living giant of sex and strength.
"Oh, yeah!" he shouted. "Oh, yeah, baby!"
He roared like a lion, rediscovering in that moment the macho teenager that John had turned into a mincing faggot. Clearly, Callen was to be the dominant partner, Best his indefatigable opposite number, the distaff partner, the one who would spread his legs and allow himself to be dominated by his other half. In seconds Callen became a god as well, a god like John, dominant, all-conquering, brutal.
John wept. "No! No! It's mine! I wanted it for me!" He knew this was the end. Mr. Bel had acted on his request, but not as expected. He had chosen a couple to make over into the rulers of the world. But not John. John was to be dispensed with. The reign of John's power was over.
Best and Callen stood and looked at themselves in the mirror, quite oblivious to each other. John watched them, transfixed by their beauty. Eventually, they noticed each other and at once set to making love, the coupling of two deities. John sobbed with the joy of it. Their passion rose instantly. Callen picked Best up and threw him to the floor, mounting him savagely. Best accepted his enormous tool without demure. Callen pumped him briefly until they both exploded into orgasm, apparently an unending orgasm. It went on and on.
John stood and watched them come, he knew not for how long. Surely this was the greatest ejaculation in human history, the fuck of all fucks. His tears poured copiously, for he knew he was to be denied this ultimate pleasure.
He did not know how long it lasted.
An hour, perhaps hours. At last, sexually depleted for the first time since the Change, he sagged against the glass. Callen and Best continued their endless orgasm.
"My God, it's beautiful, Mr. Bel," he gasped.
"In its way," Mr. Bel said diffidently. Had he stood there behind John the whole time? "You see now why it was impossible."
"Impossible? How impossible? You've done it."
Mr. Bel grabbed him by the hair and forced him to regard the Olympian pair. "Look at them, Mr. Avery. What are they doing?"
"They're coming. They're having the greatest orgasm in the history of the world."
"So they are. And so they shall always be for the duration of their very long lives."
John blinked and looked again. The expression on their faces had not changed since their ecstasy commenced. They lay on the carpet, locked in congress, coming and coming and coming.
"You mean... they can't stop?"
"As I told you, John, the laws can be bent but not broken. Your present form, your power, creates an imbalance in the universe, an imbalance which we make excellent use of. To create an opposing fulcrum, to right the Equilibrium, well, you see the results are disastrous."
"This is it for them. Nothing more."
"Nothing more. The energies they are presently producing are... well, we shall find some small use for them. But nothing like what we can do with you, John. You are our prize."
John said nothing. What was there to say? Best and Callen pulsed their bodies together in endless ecstasy, oblivious to their surroundings, mindless. That was what he had asked for. Mr. Bel, in his affection for John, had not given it to him.
He slumped down to the floor.
"Come, John," Mr. Bel said gently. "Come with me."
John allowed himself to be led like a child into the next room. It was filled with mirrors. Mr. Bel positioned him in front of one of them.
"Look at yourself, John. Look at your body. Look at your penis. See your beauty. Isn't it enough? Isn't an eternity of pleasure a worthy gift?"
John covered his face with his hands. "I can't go on like this. The darkness. The emptiness."
"You are master of all you survey."
"So I was yesterday. And the day before that. So I will be tomorrow and the day after and the day after. How can I do that forever, Mr. Bel? Where is my life? What is my purpose?" He looked sharply at Mr. Bel. "You have a purpose, don't you, Mr. Bel? You've got a great big purpose. I wonder what it is?"
"Hm. You are distressed. Mentally."
"My body is glorious, Mr. Bel. But my mind. My mind." He wept. "Why have you done this to me?"
"We have done nothing to you, John. And we have taken nothing from you. At the moment I first approached you, you had decided to end your life. With the completion of that life, we were able to give you a second life."
"You did a great deal more than that. You led me to Kevin so that I would unleash my power fully. You encouraged me to destroy Dieter."
"I did nothing but give you opportunities. What you did with them was your personal choice."
"What I did with them! What else could I have done with them with this power roaring in my head, in my cock! The pleasure surges in my brain and I don't care about anything, I don't fear anything! I'm willing to do anything! Any man would have done the same as I've done!"
"Would he? Your relationship with Mr. Lindisfarne was of a different quality. Or rather, it started out differently, until you chose the glory of your power over the love he gave you."
John put his head in his hands and said nothing.
"If it's any consolation to you, little Mr. Keynes thought he was transforming himself for you. He thought he was becoming a perfect mate for his god."
John did not move, his hands threaded into his thick, luxurious hair.
"If you like, John, I could... arrange for you not to have these feelings."
John laughed without mirth. "You can arrange anything, can't you, Mr. Bel?"
"As you have seen, not everything."
"Yeah, sure, do it. What the hell." He turned to him. "While you're at it you can... " But Mr. Bel, in his occult way, was gone.
John hung his head in despondency. It was over. His body might go on raping the planet, but his mind, his persona, would eventually be dead inside him. It would become inert. He would end up as a tool of Mr. Bel and his associates, whoever they were. A household appliance, soulless and obedient.
He thought back on the old John Avery, the pinched, angry John Avery. It was the first time since he had been metamorphosed that laid claim in his mind to that dreary previous incarnation. That John Avery, however dreadful he was, was a living, breathing human being, capable of growth and change. He wasn't locked into a single identity. He had the capacity to learn new things and become new things. If John had given himself a chance, perhaps he could have become someone better, someone finer. Perhaps he could have joined the human race instead of dominating it.
He looked at himself in the mirror. His face, even tear-stained and distorted with anguish, was supremely beautiful. His cock was the biggest cock in the world, a cock so huge it would be unusable without Mr. Bel's accommodating magic. And his muscles: no amount of steroids could produce such magnificence, such utter perfection, such overweening size. He was the strongest man in the world, perhaps the strongest man who had ever lived. His sex could steamroller over any apparent obstacle. All men were his toys.
He flexed. His biceps popped up enormously, his chest was a deep buttress of power. His legs exploded with muscle. If he was ever to wear pants again, they would have to be tailored for him, for no off-the-rack item could contain the magnificent arcs of his thighs. His body was hard, densely heavy, like stone.
Granted, Mr. Bel had been unable to give him what he wanted. But what of it? He still had himself. And he still had the world, the whole, wide, succulent world waiting for him to command it, to dominate it, to fuck it! Who needed love when he already had everything else? It was enough! It was enough!
His mind went out to the planet around him. Within its circumference, within the soft envelope of its atmosphere, all men were his. They were trapped here with him and would serve him in any way he chose. All men would obey him, worship him! He would fuck them and discard them! He would ravage the world! He would be hard, strong, unstoppable! The feeling of supermasculinity returned, filling him with power.
He punched the door, sending it flying off its hinges. He strode out into the daylight. He was stark naked in the middle of the afternoon and his cock was fully erect, but no matter. The people on the street stared at him in wonderment, but he knew their wonderment was only beginning. He stalked proudly past them to his car. Let them look, the Little People! Let them see his power in all its raw inevitability, let them fear him!
As luck, or something else, would have it, Harvey Kell was walking by at that very moment. Without a word, John grabbed him, threw him under one arm and carried him to the limo. His driver dutifully opened the door and he climbed in. Harvey uttered a single syllable when John swept him up, but not another protest escaped him.
John proceeded to fuck him brutally. Harvey groaned and opened wide for him. He instructed the driver to "just drive" while he worked on Harvey's magnificent ass. The driver drove for three days, trading shifts periodically with other fuck zombies while John worked doggedly on Harvey, dominating him, depriving him of all independence, canceling his identity. When he was satisfied that Harvey's free will was completely destroyed, he discarded him, to whatever fate John did not care.
John would ravage the planet. He would roar through the world. He would dominate and drain anyone he touched. He would be the destroyer.
But he would never again try to create another one like Best. Not the next time, or the time after that. Not ever.
Not forever and ever and ever and ever and ever.
|« PREV||INDEX||NEXT »|
This collection was originally created as a compressed archive for personal offline viewing
and is not intended to be hosted online or presented in any commercial context.
Any webmaster choosing to host or mirror this archive online
does so at their sole discretion.
Archive Version 070326