TOP DOG PRESS
TOP DOG PRESS
The Boy the Beast Wants
by
Skian McGuire
I bow my head in apology to my already-underserved lovers.
There’s the sweet boy I sometimes play with, my butch partner who is the love
of my life, a fuckbuddy whom I never get enough of as it is – all the
masculine creatures I could want to extract my pleasure from. Aren’t they
enough? They ought to be. But the problem is, I care about them. I could never
bring myself to do to them any of the things I see in my mind’s eye to the boy
that my Beast has invented.
He’s not very young, as some boys go, but not quite as old
as 30 – not a grown-up. I know he will be mine for only a short time, then
move on. I imagine him following the progression that leathermen did in the old
days, earning what he wears by the trials I impose on him, growing into the
topman he will become. Not that he won’t long for the release of masochism and
submission, when that day arrives – but who could follow me? Oh, Ego! This is
my fantasy, and I want to be the top that boy can never find again, and so has
to become, instead. Maybe someday, when he is tired and jaded and longs for
release more than he longs for his next breath, maybe then he’ll find another
Master, or Mistress even, and the old dog in him will learn new tricks. Why not?
It happens. But first, I want to be the one he remembers for a long, long time.
I picture him – a skinny, scrawny, surly thing, all bones
and cowlicks and wary eyes. I see him looking at me, his chin lowered, no smile,
no light, just heat. He is wearing the uniform of the novice: jeans and a white
T-shirt, no leather, not even a belt. Tan construction boots. His arms are at
his sides, fists clenched. His feet are flat on the floor, squared. I see him
across the big room of a dungeon we all go to, and even though the place is
crowded, no one is playing yet. We might as well be the only ones in the room.
His eyes burn into mine for a moment, then drop. When he
looks up again, I look at a spot in front of my feet and call him to it with my
gaze. He comes.
Now he stands before me, eyes down. Nervous. I can see his chest rise and fall,
too quickly. He knows better than to speak before he is spoken to. I walk around
him, inspecting carefully. His shoulder blades are pathetic bony little wings.
His breasts are bound. His ass is nonexistent, but his arms are wiry. The
muscles in the back of his neck twitch under my gaze.
“Boy.”
He holds his breath. I come back around to face him.
In real life, I might ask him his name now, and he would
answer, looking up at me with those wary, animal eyes, adding the “sir” only
after a long pause. And I would allow myself to be amused, if only slightly, and
never enough to show. After a pause long enough to make him glance nervously
away, like a prey animal looking for escape, I answer, repeating his name, and
then:
“You want somebody to beat the shit out of you, don’t
you, punk?”
His mouth is dry; he has to work up spit and swallow hard
before he answers, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
“Yes, sir.”
In real life, I would grip his shoulder and push him ahead,
guiding him through the labyrinth of rooms until we could find a quiet place to
talk. Negotiate. Get To Know Each Other. I would inquire about his limits. His
safeword. His state of health. He would find out what he could do to please me.
I would find out what he needs to learn. But this is not real life: this is my
fantasy.
I grab a handful of the T-shirt at the back of his neck to
propel him to the place we will play, jerking him around corners, shoving him
into the space ahead when we reach it. Before he has time to recover his balance
I grab his shirt again and deliberately trip him, sending him onto the rug on
his hands and knees.
The names I will call him won’t be nice ones, but he
won’t be surprised. This boy knows what I am. When I call him a shit-ass
little motherfucker, scumbag, filthy little asswipe, pussy, fuckhole, punk
faggot sissyboy, you little shit, you dirty snot-nose little freak, in that low
voice, that crazy voice that says I am a hair’s breadth away from losing it,
the blood will run cold in his veins. He will wonder exactly what he has gotten
himself into. He will know it is exactly what he wants. When the side of my boot
lands hard on his ass, and again, and again, driving him down, and my instep
slams into his crotch, and my toe taps his spine and his kidney and his
ever-so-tender ribs just hard enough to remind him of his body’s fragility,
when the steel-capped toe of my boot pounds into his ass and thighs again and
again, until he curls up in a fetal position that I have to haul him out of,
drag him to his knees by main force so I can grab his hair and slap him until he
looks at me, Look at me, you little fairy, you cunt, look at me! He won’t be
crying. Not yet.
I will throw him over the hassock that is ever so handy and I
will whip my black leather belt out of my belt loops with a hiss that he will
hear in nightmares, and I will lay into his ass with a sound like cracking
thunder, furiously, setting fire through his clothes onto the meat of his ass
and his shoulders, until he covers his head with his arms in that gesture of
involuntary self-protection that only invites the Beast’s rage. The strap of
my belt will land again and again, my free hand will punch and slap and grab,
until I come around in front, panting, sweating, to lift his head by the hair
and demand to know, Have you had enough, boy?
His eyes before they focus on my face will be wild and full
of pain and fear, but in an instant the look in them will harden. It will be a
look of hate, hating what I do to him but still needing more and hating that,
too. It will always be like that. He will say, “No, sir.” He will say,
“Fuck you, sir.”
So I will reach under his scrawny belly to unbutton his jeans
and yank them down, and this time I will lay angry stripes across his naked ass.
I will lay welts of pain that blossom into purple bruises and blood blisters
where the edge of the leather has bitten his flesh, and I will not stop until
there is no unmarked skin to hit, until he breaks down, face wet with tears, and
begs me to stop.
This is a boy I will not daddy. I will be his Master, and he
will be a thing I possess. I will not comfort him. He will hate what I do, and I
will take all that I want. What the Beast wants.
I’ll unbutton my own jeans – next time I’ll make him
gnaw on my denim crotch for the privilege and unbutton my jeans with his teeth
– and haul out my hard cock for him to suck, gagging and hitching, snot
running down his face. He’ll kneel before me with his pants at his knees and
swallow my cock to the hilt, so help me God he will, and I’ll fuck his face
until he knows exactly what that hole is for.
And the boy wants it. I know he wants it, and so does the
Beast, and I know what I’ll find when I’ve had enough of my cock down his
throat and I turn him around, belly down on the hassock. My cock will open him
up easily, slipping into him like a key in a well-oiled lock, because this is
the thing he wants most of all. His wet cunt will need no lube at all; I’ll
pound him until the Beast is finish with both of us, slamming against his
ravaged ass until my own need for orgasm reminds me of mercy, and I reach around
to jerk him off, my cock buried in him, my breath hot on his neck, my weight on
his back.
In the end, I’ll make him lick my boots to thank me,
letting the Beast in me doze and dream of next time.
I’m sorry, I tell my lovers, silently. I’m sorry it’s
not you I imagine. And I know what you would say, each of you: “That’s not
so bad. I could give you that. I have given you that, or nearly, or would have,
if you’d only let me.” But it’s only the beginning, don’t you see? The
Beast wants so much more than that. The Beast wants blood, and the cane that
puts down pain like napalm, and doesn’t care if it turns you on or not. The
Beast wants to hear you scream. The Beast wants you to be so afraid you will
thank your God when it’s over that I am not really insane, that I did not
actually spill your guts out on the bed of a cheap motel or crack open your
skull on the dungeon’s cinder block wall. The Beast wants to call you things
you do not want to be called. The Beast wants to hit and kick and gouge and
tear, the Beast wants to become a whirlwind of pain and fear, abandoning all
control, abandoning love and conscience and hope for the future. The Beast –
my Beast – is a beast of rage.
A woman I know, another switch, tells me that her inner
sadist has several forms of expression, one of which she calls the Vampire, and
he reminds me of my own Beast – amoral, hungry for pain and fear, satisfaction
of his own desires his only care. There are other ways her top self can express
itself; in me it seems that there is only one Beast, and every other way in
which I might play top, even Daddy, is only a pale shadow of it. In my musings,
considering what his nature is, I thought at first that there might actually be
two Beasts – one that wanted a victim’s fear and another that wanted to
explode in physical violence. It made sense that there should be two, because I
know where they come from, just as I know who my imaginary boy really is.
My mother’s powerlessness. My father’s burden of control
and responsibility. She had no one but me on whom to let loose her fear of being
a helpless cripple, her resentment of the trap she came to by circumstance and
poor judgment. He did everything he was supposed to do, and God help anyone who
got in his way when his leash finally broke. I am the child of both my parents.
My Beast is their child, too. There is only one of us.
Do you see why it can’t be you I imagine, my lovers to whom
I owe much more than I’ve given? It has to be the boy who lives only in my
mind, the sullen, angry, injured boy who hates the things I do to him, hates me,
and still comes back for more. He is as tough as he is fragile. He needs pain
like the rest of us need air and water, shelter and love. He needs to die so he
can be born again, and maybe this time, someone will want him. I can hurt him
because I don’t love him like I love you. I can hurt him and scare him and
even hate him. After all, he’s only me.
If I say it often enough, write about it, describe him to
myself, imagine what I will do to him in loving detail, maybe the Goddess will
let me have him.
Ó Skian McGuire 2004