by _Anthology
I let him hold and stroke me for a while. He rocked me back and forth and I believe he was crying.
"You have the circle, Thomas. You know I cannot cross the circle," I murmured, even though it wasn't true.
He paused for one moment more, then said, "Let me see your feet."
Like some prized animal, he set about inspecting me.
"Your ankles seem fine, more or less. Those don't have to come off. But maybe the wrists. Just until you heal, of course."
"You don't have to do that, Thomas," I said. It sounded very brave. "Won't you be afraid of me? I don't want you to be afraid of me."
I searched his eyes, waiting. This would be the turning point. Had I judged him correctly after all this time?
Thomas White did not disappoint. He made a dismissive gesture and I think he even puffed out his chest.
"Nonsense. Why should I fear you? I command you and you are bound. These come off now. I will not have my property damaged." From many furtive searches during our lovemaking, I knew that he was never so foolish as to keep the key directly on his person. So he left me for a moment, apologizing even as he backed out of the circle, then made his way up the stairs. A few moments later, he returned. I was mildly surprised to see not one but two keys in his hand.
"These only open the bonds at your wrists, so it will profit you nothing to take them from me," he cautioned. "I will not release you completely, Sephiriel. And I am ready for any tricks." He laid one hand on the scourge that hung at his waist.
I gazed adoringly up at him, the model of innocence. But it was good to know that each manacle had its own key. I couldn't make a mistake and move too soon -- if even one were attached to my person, I would remain bound.
He muttered some garbled Latin under his breath. When he had first summoned me, he had communicated exclusively in Latin, for some reason assuming it to be my native tongue. I recognized this as an incantation. Aside from my True Name, the words of the spell were doggerel. I had no idea what they could possibly have to do with the lock. Certainly, nothing happened until he actually turned the little key.
Then the manacle fell away with a terrible clatter and it seemed as if my entire being grew lighter for its absence. The second incantation was slightly different, but once more the only thing that rang with any power was my True Name. The spell itself seemed largely incoherent.
But the key turned the tumblers, and the thing fell away. And for the first time in ages, my hands were free.
I raised them and placed them on either side of Thomas's grizzled face, kissing him with unfeigned gratitude. I waited a long while before I tried to convince him to remove the first of the ankle bonds. In the meantime, I redoubled my affections so that Thomas put off replacing the wrist restraints. I made certain to show him all the things I could do now that my hands were unrestrained. He never bound them again. In time, the burns around my wrists healed completely. This amazed even me.
With a better understanding of how resilient my flesh could be, I started wearing away at my ankles. I worked on both of them for the better part of a day, making certain one was notably worse than the other. I would press my leg against the floor so one side of the manacle bit deeply into the flesh, then I would dig and scrape with my nails in the space this opened on the other side. The process was agonizing, but I was determined, and I knew that I would heal. I could barely walk by the time Thomas returned for the night.
When he descended the stairs, I hobbled toward him, arms outstretched. He stopped and glanced downward immediately. There was almost no hesitation this time. His face distraught, he rushed over to me and inspected the damage.
"This metal is truly a bane to you," he observed, obviously distraught and alarmed. "How could you have endured it?"
I looked away, not trusting myself to answer.
"Well, I can't take both of them off of you," he said. "You must know that. But this left one looks terrible. I'm amazed you can even walk."
"I saved my strength for you all day," I murmured, pressing my face against his side. The fact that he stank was no longer an issue. There was an end in sight now, and that vision urged me onward.
"Oh, my poor little lover," he soothed, petting my waves of red hair. "You sit. Don't walk on it. I'll be back in just a moment." He returned with the third key. Again, there was the muttered Latin that was meant to be a spell. Again, the only word of power was my True Name. Even as this shivered through me, the manacle fell off. I was three parts free of him now. I used my elation to carry me through what was probably the best sex of Thomas White's miserable existence.
A being of flame and passion, I was given more to impulse than to patience games. But when the goal was worth the work, I found that even I could force myself to wait. And so it was some time before I even considered working on the final bond. My left ankle, nearly ruined by my previous work, had healed. The flesh was unmarked and whole. My wrists had long ago shed all indication of their previous bondage. And now there was only one to go.
Thomas spent more and more of his time with me, treating me more like a companion and lover. Now that most of my limbs were free, he saw fit to clothe my naked form, although the clothes seemed to exist for the sole purpose of taking them off of me again. As only one manacle remained, I was able to feed more efficiently. I was still limited to those times when I touched him, but at least this was something. I no longer felt so weighted down that I could barely think or move.
Slowly, I built up my strength on Thomas's passion. It was bitter fare, but at least it sustained me. And I wanted to be ready for that fatal moment when the final bond fell free. In the mean time, I made a great show of never crossing the circle. I behaved as if it pained me and if Thomas drew me too close to it, I moaned and trembled all over.
And then it was time. I spent an entire day working on the last manacle. Had I been able to bleed, the stones around me would have been as crimson as my hair. It occurred to me that I might even be able to free myself by wearing through my ankle completely -- but I was repulsed by this idea. I had endured too much to gain this beautiful body. I wasn't about to idly throw pieces of it away. The previous damage had healed eventually, but I had no idea how or if I could regrow a severed limb. The thought of being maimed for eternity horrified me.
So my ankle was more or less intact when Thomas came to me. There was the usual concerned exchange, but it was obvious that he wrestled with his love and his fear of me. In the end, he hobbled up the steps and returned holding the last, most treasured key.
"I know you cannot cross this circle," he declared. "And if I remain here, you cannot harm me. I do not know if you can work the spell yourself, demon, but I have foolishly grown too fond of you and I cannot bear to see you suffer."
He paused. I wasn't sure what he intended. Then he tossed me the key. Hurled it is more like. It sailed over me, bounced on the stones and skidded across the far edge of the circle. With supreme effort, I stayed myself from snatching it up. Instead, I made a great show of reaching for it and being repelled by the imagined barrier.
Thomas watched. He had been testing me. From some inner pocket, he produced another key.
"This is the real one," he said. "I now know that the circle will indeed keep you imprisoned. So I will throw you the key."
The second key -- the real key -- arced over to me. I snatched it in mid-air. It was coated in gold, of course. Pain flared through my fingers even as they closed around it. But there was nothing that was going to stop me.
I knew the spell was pointless. Thomas muttered it anyway as I fought to turn the precious key. My hands were trembling and there was hardly any strength in them, but finally, the manacle fell away.
I stood, unbound at last. I took a moment to savor that sensation: I was free.
My waves of flame-red hair flowing around me like a garment, I looked up at Thomas and held out my arms. "Come to me, lover," I said invitingly. I let my member grow large as I stoked the fire that rose within me.
Thomas almost took a step forward, then thought better of it. "I want to believe you," he whispered. "I want to." I moved to the very edge of the circle, beckoning with my eyes. With each step, power flowed back into me. The temperature in the dank little cellar was rising, and I knew this was the fire rising in me.
"Haven't I proven my devotion?" I responded. "Thomas, beloved. Let me hold you. Come to me." Thomas broke and strode toward the circle. There were tears in his eyes. I regarded them, silently burning. He lost his nerve just before he crossed the line of carefully scribed sigils. He was openly weeping now, muttering apologies for not being able to trust in my love.
Then his voice died in his throat, for I stepped across the circle and met him halfway.
"Lover," I hissed as I held him in an embrace like a vise. "Let me hold you again. One last time for all you have taken from me." I could already feel the flames creeping up the backs of my legs. The heat ran like gooseflesh up my back and down my arms. My hair was caught in the updraft and it streamed around me like a living thing. I had a corona of fire around my head and there was almost no difference between the color of my hair and wavering flames that engulfed me.
I pulled Thomas closer and kissed him. His clothes scorched with my heat and I could smell it when his hair caught fire. I broke the kiss and drew away. A wisp of smoke trailed from our lips.
"I love you," I whispered, as we stood there, burning. "And I will hate you forever." And then it was as if a floodgate was loosed, only this gate released a torrent of flame from within me. Everything was swept upward in the rush of the heat. Thomas' clothes billowed around him then seared to ashes as I watched. He screamed and shook and danced as the fire embraced his withered limbs. I held him tight against my lethal body. And as long as he had eyes to see, he stared eye to eye with me.
Eventually, the flames died away, tucked back within that secret space deep within the core of my being. The thing that I held was no longer recognizably human, just a bunch of charred sticks and blackened cloth. I crushed my arms together and the remains of Thomas White exploded in a burst of ash. Bits of soot and the stench of burnt flesh clung to every portion of me.
I did not weep. I could not. Yet something in me felt as heavy and weighted down as when I had worn both sets of manacles on feet and hands.
I looked down at the scorched stones of the floor and scattered his ashes with my foot. Then I strode up the stairs and threw open the door. It was time to experience the rest of the world.
Kiss
By Steve Berman Without air-conditioning, the temperature inside the car racing down the highway felt 20 degrees hotter than the surrounding desert. Beneath the sweaty t-shirt he wore, Mike could feel his back sliding against the seat. His roommate sat behind the wheel, one arm out the window catching the breeze. Blond, shirtless, and tan, eyes concealed by mirrored sunglasses, Ryan did not seem the least bit hampered by the heat.
"Do you think Tom's a top or a bottom?" he asked, glancing over at Mike. Tom was supposed to be one of the features at tonight's party. A junior with hopefully more than a 4.0. Maybe seven. "Does it matter?" Mike had known Ryan to convince the most adamant top to beg with his knees up around his ears.
Ryan grinned, his smile perfect except for a chipped front tooth. He told everyone it had been a skateboarding injury from years back. After several shots of tequila though, Ryan confided in Mike that an ex had hit his face with the fridge door.
They had met freshman year at U of A on the same floor of the dorm. Separate rooms to start. But after Ryan's roommate told the RA he would not share space with a faggot, Mike had agreed to room with him. Mike had found himself more drawn to Ryan's personality before he even noticed how good-looking the California boy was.
Their first kiss happened sitting on the floor. Ryan had a few friends over to share some of Canada's finest. Mike turned and saw Ryan waiting for him with the lit end of the blunt in his mouth. He leaned in and touched his lips against Ryan's, opening his mouth a moment later. Smoke flavored with THC drifted between them. Ryan's fingers lightly tapped a heartbeat against the back of Mike's neck.
Mike had never tasted boy or drug before then and the two flavors were immediately his favorites.
They passed a flattened carcass laying in the middle of the road. Ryan swerved to avoid the dead rabbit.
"Chupacabra."
"Huh?" Mike looked over his shoulder at the road behind him.
"What killed that rabbit." Ryan lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror.
"Looked like a Goodyear going sixty-five was to blame."
"Nope, the chupacabra," Ryan said.
"What the hell is that?" Mike took a moment to peel himself from the car seat.
"The Mexican goat-sucker."
Mike looked at Ryan, expecting to see a stupid grin. The handsome face did not disappoint him. "Is that like a Dirty Sanchez?"
"How come I'm from California and I've heard of it?"
Mike shrugged. "Like every boy from Tucson has."
"They're aliens."
"Wait, I thought you said they're Mexicans. How can they be both?"
"Maybe they're illegal aliens?"
"That's so bad," Mike said with a groan. "They're supposed to be these creatures that drain the blood from animals." Ryan dropped his voice low, as if to be spooky. "People, too, on occasion. They look like spiny little gray men with tongues like a frog, 'cept that's how they drink, like through a straw."
"Right." Mike stared out into the desert. It looked so empty. Lonely was the word that came to mind. "So you've bought from this guy before, right?"
"Yeah." He looked away from the road for a moment to pick through the jewel cases in the bin between the seats. "Here, the Redcaps, track four."
Mike slid the CD into the dashboard. Harsh lyrics that blended with industrial beat filled the car.
Ryan tapped the wheel with his slender fingertips in time to the music. "Cruz deals the best shit. Tonight's party will be made by what we bring back."
"Cool."
They pulled onto a dirt side road. Clouds of reddish dust blew from around the tires. "How do you know about all this shit?"
"What, the peyote? Mescalito?" Ryan shook his head, chuckling. "My brother was kicked out of pharmacy school."
Mike knew that real life had worse things than bogeymen. Envy. Want. Loneliness. These frightened him -- not superstition. "No, the chuba ..."
"Chup-acabra. That's from Alvaro." "I thought you said this guy's name is Cruz."
Ryan nodded. "Alvaro was this kid I met back in high school. Tutored me in Spanish. Was the first uncut cock I ever saw."
Mike laughed, trying not to think how long it had taken him to lose his virginity. "Did you get an 'A' on the tests?"
"B minus. Just to make sure I got weekly visits. Still, I was his best mayate pupil."
"Just never tell me exactly how many guys you've done. I don't want to be scared." "Aww, poor Mikey. Maybe tonight you can work on catching up to me." They had slept together a few times after becoming roommates. But Ryan's eye and mouth wandered a lot, and Mike let himself graduate to ‘best friend’ when it was clear that being a boyfriend wasn't an option. The last time they had done anything was after Jell-O shots. They had woken up in bed together, mostly clothed, and sipped water from a bottle together to rehydrate. Mike had spilled some on his chest and a playful Ryan dribbled more onto Mike's boxers. From there, the hangovers had been forgotten.
Ryan slowed down on the dirt road and the car felt the bumps. After 20 minutes the desert landscape was broken by an eyesore: a battered trailer surrounded by scarred lawn furniture. A fake deer with broken antlers guarded the door. An old pickup truck, hood flipped open, rested unhitched nearby.
Ryan pulled up beside the trailer. He craned his neck out the open window and called out. "¡Oye ese! ¿Que hay de nuevo?" Moments later the trailer door popped open. Squinting at the sun from the darkness of the interior, a stout man with dusky skin stepped out. He had his pitch-bl
ack hair pulled back in a ponytail. Shirtless, his chest was a blend of curved muscle and fat around his stomach, a torso in transition from football player bulk to couch potato.
"Hola."
Ryan grinned at Mike. "Get ready for some of the best shit you'll ever taste," he said as he got out of the car. "Cruz," he called out and met the dealer with a hand slap.
"Baja, you brought a friend." Cruz looked Mike over from top to bottom, while rubbing the bit of scruff along his neck.
"Baja?" Mike immediately wondered if the two had played around. "Heh, I call him that," Cruz said, playfully batting at Ryan's chest. "He's all Californian. So you have money?"
Ryan answered by pulling a wad of folded bills from a pocket on his cargo shorts.
Cruz smiled. "Good. Come inside." The trailer was dim and much too warm. The air smelled rank with a blend of sweat, marijuana smoke, and fried sausage. Cruz led them to the left and back. He collapsed on the unmade bed, the stained mattress peeking through tangled sheets, and reached behind him to shoeboxes scattered along a shelf.
"Mescalito," Cruz said and yawned as he took down one box. Inside was a plastic bag with what looked to Mike like a bunch of dried little turds. Cruz opened the bag and offered it to them.
Ryan reached in first and took out one of the small buttons. "It's the top of a local cactus." He popped it into his mouth, grimacing as he began chewing.
Mike did the same. The taste was hot and bitter, quickly leaving his tongue and mouth numb. "Ugh, and to think I'm wasting my time majoring in history."
Ryan smirked. "That shit's tradition to the natives. More than the chupacabra."
"Goat-sucker?" Cruz barked a laugh. "Here, the only thing good for sucking is this." Cruz grabbed the crotch of his cut-offs and squeezed the outline of his cock. Mike doubted the dealer wore any underwear.
Cruz next rummaged and found a fat joint that he lit on the trailer's burner. He took a deep hit then held it out to Ryan. "¿Grilla, Baja?" "When do I ever say no?" Ryan took several deep hits, refreshing the stink in the air, before passing it to Mike. The pot was strong, stronger than he ever had, though maybe it was 'cause of the peyote button he had just swallowed. His stomach didn't feel too good. He passed the joint back to Cruz who smirked at both of them.
