Honeypot

With just the Magister's fingers beneath my chin, he somehow manages to guide me back to standing. My legs tremble as I rise to my feet. Just lack of blood flow from kneeling. Circulation will return, and I'll feel steady again.

He works the knot loose from his tie and pulls the fabric free. The silk whispers as it slides along the crisp linen. He returns the garment to its hanger in the wardrobe and turns his attention back to me. With the tobacco-smoke taste of him still lingering in my mouth, I expect to be dismissed.

"Remove your shirt. I'd like to see the results of your training."

It's not until I grab hold of the moisture-wicking material that I realize I've been sweating. The room's air chills damp skin as I tug the black fabric up over my head. I keep my shirt balled up in my hands until he gestures for me to toss it on the floor.

Rather than drop it, I fold the sleeves in at the shoulder, then in half twice -- first lengthwise, then across. I set the garment down at the foot of the bed. I've never discarded clothes carelessly on the floor before. I don't intend to do so in front of the Magister.

An amused bark escapes him. "Given permission to bend the rules, you stick to protocol." His gaze rakes over me, a pensive expression on his face as he rolls up the cuffs of his shirt sleeves.

He circles me slowly, warm calloused hands tracing the muscle in my shoulders and upper back. I can feel my pulse quicken beneath the physical examination. "Given your strength assessment, I thought you'd be bigger," he muses.

I can't help but feel a flush of shame. "I can spend more time training, Sir."

His grip tightens on my tricep, a warning but not a threat. "No. You are strong, but you do not look like it. What does that mean?"

I swallow, then speak, certain my pulse is fluttering palpably. Not five minutes ago, taking him in my mouth, I already knew the answer. "It means my enemy will underestimate me."

"Very good." A two word commendation. Commendations mean I am doing things right. Doing things right means living to see another day. I've heard words like this before, but it's not a sense of security that stirs in me. The chord his words strike is deeper, resonant, raw.

Two little words and I no longer feel the heartbeat in my chest. No, now my pulse twitches in the taut pants of my uniform.

"I know you have been told your body is a weapon, and I can see the dedication you have put into it." His touch continues across my and down before coming to a rest on my lower abdomen. "But how would you know how to handle the kickback of your rifle if you've never fired it?"

For a moment, I expect his touch to drift further down, to touch the very obvious strain in my clothing. But he does not. No, instead he steps back and settles himself on the bed, reclined against a small mountain of pillows. "Remove the rest of your clothing." He waves his hand, as if he is bidding me to entertain him.

I hesitate for a second, I hope it is only a second, before my hands go to my waistband.

No. Order of operations. I drop to one knee, unlace a boot, slip it off, sock tucked inside, and place it at the bed's foot. The Magister watches, head cocked with curiosity, while I repeat the ritual with the other.

Nothing left to delay me now. I rise on shaky legs and hook my thumbs into the waistband, peeling pants and briefs down my legs in one swift motion. One foot at a time, I step out of the garment, fold it, and set it down next to my shirt.

Privacy is a luxury I am not afforded. I have been naked before in front of my peers, in front of doctors. I am blood and bone and muscle and skin, all of it working together for a purpose. Still, it takes a great deal of willpower not to fold my hands in front of my own half-erect penis. He takes notice of the small twitch in my hands.

"Are you ashamed of your physical form, Mikel?" he asks, toying with a button on his own shirt. The fabric slides open a fraction of an inch revealing tufts of greying hair on his chest.

I shake my head. "No, sir. I... I... I haven't thought of my body as--" My gaze darts to the floor. "I exist to serve the Ludus."

I expect him to scold me, but his voice is surprisingly warm. "Not all tools are lead and steel. Go on. Touch it."

Hardness. I've spent years making myself hard. I've learned to push aside hunger and thirst to keep moving through exhaustion and injury. I've learned to act without hesitation, do what needs to be done, and still sleep at night.

Now, I shift my focus to another kind of hardness.

I've touched myself before -- for urination, for hygiene -- but the brush of my fingertips against my shaft feels too much for the featherlight stroke I give it. I suck in a sharp breath, my abdomen contracting. It feels like standing with my toes dangling off the edge of a cliff. I want to back away, find safe ground, but I have my orders.

This time, I run my fingers the full length of my dick, from the head to the patch of hair nestled around the base. It twitches below my touch, standing straighter, like it too must obey the Magister's commands. It lacks his heft, but it is lean and functional, nonetheless. The skin flushes pink.

"You call that touching?" I can't tell if he's smirking; I can't bring myself to look up, but I know I'm not giving him what he wants. I'm not entirely certain what that is, either. More. More touch. More surface area, I think. I take my dick in my palm and curl my fingers around the flesh. I'm holding my own beating heart outside my body for him to see.

A strange sound fills the room, high and strained. A moment passes before I realize it's coming from me.

"Tell me what it feels like, Mikel."

I'm being asked to speak a language I have never heard before. My mouth opens. Closes.

It is warm. It is solid. That is my pulse, my blood, my nerve endings.

"It feels like... me..."

I don't think my words make any sense, but he hums in agreement.

Fabric rustles as he sits up, slides open the nightstand drawer. "Come here."

My dick begins to ache, but I keep my hand wrapped around it as I shuffle two steps towards the side of the bed. He has a bottle of some sort of clear liquid now and orders me to open my palm. When I do, he squirts some of it out onto me.

The sudden chill against the sensitive skin draws a hiss from me, but he doesn't mention it, "This will help." He sets the bottle down. "Now, wrap your hand around your cock, and stroke it. Polish it, the way you would polish a pistol."

Finally, a language I understand. The liquid warms as I move my hand along the shaft, allowing my hand to glide up and down the length of it. I suck in another breath, aware of the pressure of my grip.

I've been holding onto myself like I might break at any moment, but I am not fragile. I am a weapon. With the slightest tightening of my fist, I see sparks behind my eyes. A primal, animal sound is ripped from somewhere deep inside me.

"That's right."

The words of encouragement set a fire in my belly, stoking something in me that makes no sense. Every day of my life I master myself -- I master my hunger, I master my pain, I master my frivolous wants and needs. But what is racing through me now is beyond my control.

My hips snap forward without my mind deciding. I tighten my grasp and the pressure is... it's too much. It's not enough. I don't know what my body needs but I thrust again and again chasing the thing I have no words for.

I am dangerously helpless against myself.

A sound that isn't mine escapes my throat, which feels tight from the tension, the effort. Sweat beads on my brow, leaving trails of salt along my flushed skin. My free arm reaches out to brace against the bedpost. My knees tremble and shake as I fuck my own hand, and the pressure builds and builds and builds --

--and I am hit by a tank.

The world blanks white around me, shrinking to nothing but the thing I cannot name. A muscle I did not know I have clenches and releases inside me and all I know is that I did not do it. It happens again and again and I don't know how to stop it or even if I'm supposed to. My body pours itself out until I am drained of everything.

Until I am empty. Until I am weak.

When I finally open my eyes, I'm on my knees again. Collapsed against the footboard, my knuckles whiten on the bedpost. Splatters of my semen dot the black bed sheets in front of me, evidence of my defeat.

The Magister offers no reprimand -- not for the loss of control, not for the mess, not for collapsing at his feet. He guides me up onto the mattress, and I sag boneless into the cool embrace of the satin.

"Do you understand, now?" he asks, his hand lingering against the small of my back.

My hand, the clean one, comes up to wipe away the sweat stinging my eyes, only to find that it does not feel... right. I drag my fingertips across my cheek, gathering the dampness there. Too thin. It's not sweat in my eyes at all.

I have been... crying. I don't know when it started, and I don't know if I've stopped.

A lifetime of discipline evaporated in my own hand. No bruises, no blood, no battle. Pure, animal want. The shame of it seeps into the hollow places left behind by the strength that poured from my body.

I nod.

I understand.

I understand how this weapon can end an empire without a single bullet.

The bed shifts beneath me as he stands, I am too tired to lift my head to watch what he does next. So much for my situational awareness.

He must know how tired I am. When he returns, his callused hands guide me up to sit before bringing a glass of cool water to my lips. I tip my head back and let him pour it into my mouth, only realizing as I gulp it down how dry my throat has gone. He smoothes the hair from my brow while I drink. He's brought a pitcher, which he set on the nightstand beside the bottle of lube.

He refills the glass and presses it into my hand.

"Tell me what you are thinking, Mikel."

My right hand is still slick. It doesn't feel right to wipe it on the sheets and I can't tell him that's what's on my mind. So I bring the glass to my lips and take measured, even sips instead.

It's over now. I lost a battle, but I can regroup. I must show him this will not destroy me. "How did you do it?" I ask.

"Do what?"

"Before, when you fucked my mouth, you didn't collapse afterwards."

The Magister's smile reminds me of a wolf. "Like any good skill, my boy, that comes with practice."