Balfor and Terry 3

After he was manhandled half asleep into a kneeling position, Terry felt Balfor's fingers on his face, and then, once his mouth had been located, Terry dutifully opened it so Balfor could put his cock head on his tongue.

Balfor groaned and stretched his arms, and then yawned.

Terry waited. He felt Balfor's pubic hairs caressing and tickling his chin as his master's heavy balls rolled around lazily in their sac.

He felt the first trickle and prepared himself to swallow.

The flow increased to the sound of Balfor's relieved sighing.

Terry gagged a little on the horrible fluid but managed to keep it down without retching. His mouth tasted revolting afterward. There was a sick feeling in his stomach.

"Good dog!" said Balfor. He farted and then went back to sleep leaving Terry crouching in the gloom in a state of mild shock at what he had allowed to be done to him without protest. He still could not believe that he was masochistically perverse enough to be enjoying this. His cock was hard, and again, there was nothing he could do about it.

At least he was upwind.

He struggled to get back to sleep. The sense of his life's unfairness was plaguing his pride. It was not his fault his parents had overdosed on heroin, or that his clinically depressed grand mother had not been able to get it together to feed him properly, and that as a consequence he had wound up so much smaller than Balfor. The man was huge. At least three times Terry's weight. Of course he could abuse him with impunity. It frustrated him to distraction to contemplate his utter helplessness. His pride toyed with a glimmer of hope. Maybe he could kill Balfor in his sleep somehow. So what if he had pledged not to? But then he would be left alone. Again he railed against fate to be lumbered with a character that was incapable of withstanding extended solitude.

Balfor won against him on every level. It was not to be borne.

Terry's masochist streak on the other hand was gleefully glad to be stuck on the island with Balfor. He couldn't believe his luck. If he had managed to abandon the "Bren" with the stolen money and reach the New Caledonian coast in the inflatable, he would only have wound up drinking and drugging himself into another binge of stupor. He now realized that if his appetite for oblivion had had those seven million dollars to play with he probably would not have lasted a month. Instead he could look forward to his annoying tortured identity being subsumed by the delicious behemoth of a man breathing heavily next to him in the gloom. All he had to do was let it happen. Why did that have to be so difficult?

He began to wonder whether either of these tendencies, his pride or his masochism would prevail, and if so which one? He started to wonder, naked and chained in the gloom - exactly where he was amid all this inner turmoil. Oh great, he thought, just look at me - I'm Gollum! Terrific.

Pragmatically, there was only one thing to do in the short term. Learn to enjoy it. He concentrated on the horrible taste of Balfor's piss in his mouth and tried not to hate it. He tried to associate it with something pleasant. He thought of Balfor's handsome smiling face as he had talked to him in a moment of relaxation the day before.

Balfor was the first pleasant thing he had thought of.

Love? - thought Terry apprehensively.

Terry knew about love. He wanted to avoid love if possible. Love just gets a person like me hurt, he thought, but he was learning how to enjoy being hurt wasn't he? Is that what was happening?

Suddenly the signature of piss in his mouth did not taste so dreadful. His cock hardened again, the pain felt good this time. He smiled into the darkness and found himself actually looking forward to his next drink in the morning.

Light shimmered around him like a veil, dust motes like stars. All was fine. Balfor swept him up into his arms and held him and kissed him as naturally as if he were a girl. "You're not Gollum," he growled playfully - "you're Smeagol! My little pet Smeagol. I could eat you alive!"

When he awoke Balfor was no where to be seen. Terry was not upset with himself at all for being disappointed by this. He stared glumly at the impression of Balfor's head in the folded long-john pillow. In his throat was a lumpy pain that he kidded himself was caused by all the violent face fucking he'd endured recently.

Sunbeams streamed almost horizontally among the trees. A big black and yellow butterfly landed on his hip, tickled him slightly and then was off again. Terry made a half hearted attempt to catch it. He watched it fly away. He was tired, he realized. Tired in his soul. Tired of running away and glad there was no where to go.

He remembered his silly dream, and was chilled by Balfor saying he could eat him alive. Terry wondered whether Balfor had ever done that. Eat someone alive, unmetaphorically. He did not doubt that he could.

Terry sucked his teeth. His mouth tasted as if under his tongue was the place where elephants went to die. His butterfly was joined by a handful of others and he followed them down to the stream for a drink. He was glad Balfor had not be around to be offended by his morning breath.

After a lot of swilling his mouth finally felt almost fresh. He had no idea how badly he could miss a thing like tooth paste.

On a whim he followed the gully up stream toward the eroded peak at the center of the island. The morning air was relatively cool and his crotch felt strange because normally this would have his balls hugging tight. Now he could feel only the uncomfortable pinch of the bindings that Balfor had wound around them yesterday. He wanted desperately to take them off but was smart enough to know that to do so would almost certainly mean death.

He checked his bindings to make sure they were nice and tight. The vines had dried out and shrunk a little, so if anything it was tighter than it had been the day before. There was a bruisy sort of speckled rash in his crotch though, and he felt feverish and headachy. He had a mild anxiety attack thinking about the island's total lack of amenity. No hospital. No pain killers. No shops. No fucking toothpaste!

I'm literally marooned on a desert island, he thought. How stupid! I'd be Robinson Crusoe if I wasn't already Gollum! He laughed out loud at this thought and a stream of vomit erupted from his mouth. He stumbled into a bank of ferns, dizziness increasing, darkness smothering the morning.