The Order is a secret society, one that is woven within the margins of our world history. Members are the only ones who know the true nature of the organization, and of the needs of the men who drift towards it.
When the Order calls for an apprentice, they don't do it with language. He might hear words, but meaning is conveyed in other ways, and by other senses.In the quiet, ...[Read more]
In the quiet, air conditioned hiss of his office, Master Figata asked Apprentice Monroe whether or not he was attracted to men. It wasn't the first time Maxx had been asked such a question—Master Kamp had also posed this inquiry to the boy in his initial interview with The Order.
Regardless of language, and regardless of his choice of words, the magnetism of his body towards Figata's grip was as clear a response as any. The boy's lips parted in thankful release as the master stripped him of his belt, pants, and worries.
Apprentice Monroe found fondness in being stripped by men… undeniable fondness. He dreamed of being touched, stroked, kissed... and not just by any man, but by a man of power, and reverence. A man exactly like Master Figata. Chiseled on the master's face was the legacy and knowledge of the Order, and with it carried the kind of heat that Monroe melted, and wanted to melt, under.
Master Figata's gentle but firm hands pushed his all-but-willing apprentice across the office table. He gripped Apprentice Monroe's rear in his palms. The boy moaned as his pale cheeks were spread apart. Figata's tongue darted in and out of his ass, and weakened him.
He tasted the truth there; a quivering hole cannot lie. He replaced his tongue with a digit, and tested the boy's entrance for willingness, and flexibility. Monroe moaned incomprehensibly, wordless gasps that meant nothing in English, and everything to the Order.
A single, authoritative slap to the rear instructed the boy far more than a direct order ever could have. It told him where to go, and what to do. On the floor, to his knees he fell.
His lips, by instinct, found and lapped at the holy instrument of his master. His head bobbed up and down, cradled in the master's palm. His throat worked tirelessly. The boy's tongue was slick, and his mouth wet, and eager. Eager to taste the flesh of a man at the top of the Order, eager for just a drop of the wisdom and strength that comes from up high.
The nervous, self-conscious boy that came to his first interview was, in the hands of masters, achieving an understanding of his place within the Order. He was changing, slowly. And it was good—as good as the taste in his mouth.
And when the Master pulled out and away, the boy was left breathless, panting, yearning. His body and mind were unable to process the fact that he had just given a blow job to a man—and the honor, with it, of that man being the grizzled mountain Master Figata. He processed little at all, in fact, beyond his place, and beyond the need to serve more.
The Grandmaster, pleased that his apprentice's mouth had learned that its use was not to speak but to worship, then brought the boy back to his desk. He splayed him onto his stomach and guided his rod of flesh towards the boy's cheeks. He tested to see what else the apprentice had learned from his Calling.
Monroe whimpered softly at first. Then the master pushed more, and more, and the further he went in, the louder his moans grew.
The world changed. Everything became the rhythm of the older man’s fucking his tiny gay bottom. Nothing else existed—not the office lights, not the worries of the world, not even himself. All that remained was Master Figata's growls of pleasure, and the pulse of his thrusts. They had merged in pleasure, and found themselves completed by the rituals of The Order.
Monroe found himself so complete, in fact, that when Master Figata stopped crashing his big cock into his tiny hole and threw him off the table, that, too, was heaven. The grip, the grunt of command, the obedience... those were pleasures. To be called—to have the Calling—those, too, were pleasures.
When Master Figata laid himself upon the table and ordered the boy to sit on his face, the desire to obey swelled in the boy's body, and filled his throat with awkward, cute immediacy.
He immediately found himself sitting upon the elder's face without question or hesitance. He was not on top, but a toy, a beautiful plaything for the Order to fiddle with. And Figata did fiddle so, along the boy's taint and ravaged hole, again and again…