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Fresh Roasted

By: Cal Y. Pygia



From the first time I laid eyes upon Grant, I'd wanted to fuck him. I'd wanted to own him, sexually; to penetrate his ass; to thrust my thick, hard cock back and forth within the snug circle of his anus; and to spill my seed deep inside his bowels. I'd wanted to watch my manhood part his smooth, creamy buttocks, vanishing and reappearing between those silken mounds again and again, his buttocks bouncing before my repeated assaults, as I drove my prick as fully and fiercely as possible through his impaled asshole, deep into the smooth tunnel of his rectum. If I couldn't ravish him anally, I'd have been satisfied to fuck him in the face, for, to fuck a man, whether in his ass or his mouth, is to conquer him, as surely as if the cock with which one accomplishes the feat were a sword that stabbed him repeatedly, as fast and as hard as one's physical prowess allows.

If I couldn't conquer him in man-to-man combat, as it were, using my sword to disembowel him, as it were, and to make him less than a man by transforming him into a woman (to be used as a woman is to become a woman), I'd have been happy to defeat him by invading him--by launching millions upon millions of my sperm into his depths. In doing so, my prick would become a Trojan horse, as it were, from which my microscopic warriors would be released inside the fortress of his bowels. Although I couldn't truly impregnate him, he'd still have played the woman's part; therefore, he'd have become a woman. On the other hand, by having taken his manhood, I'd have become all the more the man.

Why did I so want to fuck Grant? His youth, his naiveté, and his innocent face brought out the cruelty in me, making me want to hurt him at the same time that I mastered him. Perhaps it is a sickness that brings out the beast in men like me--conquerors, warriors, fighters, fuckers--but, be that as it may, some of us are compelled, whether by destiny or our own free will, to bend others to our ends, to make them our slaves, and to exalt ourselves by humbling them. Innocence and naiveté, for men like me, are as wounded birds or mice to predatory cats. We must play with them sexually before we destroy them emotionally--and, if we cannot do so literally, I have found, we will do so symbolically.

That's the moral that I learned from what I refer to as The Conquest By Ice, and that moral is the theme of this story.

Just as there is more than one way to skin a cat, as the old adage claims, there is also more than one way for one man to conquer another. If Grant ignored by advances, if he pretended not to notice my flirtations, if he chose to overlook my overtures, so be it; I would have to take a more indirect approach to inseminating him. It did not matter (much) to me. Whether straightforwardly or by subterfuge, if I were to unman him, I would yet be the conqueror. In fact, by taking his manhood from him without his knowledge, much less his consent, I would demonstrate an even greater superiority over him, for to feminize another man without his awareness that he has been feminized--well, that is an even greater accomplishment, is it not?

I live upstairs, above Grant, as is appropriate, for, as I have mentioned, although he has a better education than I, earns more money than I, drives a Porsche instead of a Geo, and has three girlfriends while I have none, I am his superior. It is the inner, not the outer, man, after all, who is the real man. Psychologically, I am a dominant male; Grant, despite outer appearances, is a more or less submissive male (even if, to date, he has ignored my flirtations). In the past, most of the times that I've invited Grant upstairs, to my place, he has declined (especially since the night I answered the door in the nude, with a hard-on). However, I knew how to get him up the stairs. I taped a note to his door that read "Stella stopped by with a message for you. Drake." Stella was one of his three girlfriends.

Sure enough, a few minutes after I heard him shuffling around in his apartment, his footsteps sounded upon the stairs, and he rang my doorbell. This time, I didn't answer his summons in the nude. There was no need to do so. The seduction I'd planned for Grant did not necessitate nudity.

"Grant! Come in."

He remained outside, on the landing between my apartment and the adjacent second-story unit. "No thanks."

I looked puzzled. "What can I do for you?"

He referenced the scrawled note I'd taped to his door. "You said Stella was by. She left a message for me with you?"

"Oh!" I feigned remembrance. "That's right. Come in." I stepped aside.

"I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"Just for a moment," I pleaded. "I wanted your opinion on a new blend of coffee I bought. I love the taste, but the others at my job might not. It's my week to provide the coffee, you see."

"I'm sure it's fine."

"You can't be sure unless you try a cup."

"Can't I just get Stella's message?"

I smiled politely. "Not until I get your opinion about the coffee."

Grant sighed. His handsome, innocent boy-next-door face made me want to shove my cock down his throat. He shrugged. "All right, but I can stay only for a few minutes."

"The coffee's already brewed," I said. "Have a seat at the table. I'll be just a minute."

I took two of my finest China cups from the cabinet and placed them upon saucers. I brought them to the table, fetched the silver sugar bowl and creamer, and asked, "Do you take cream in your coffee, Grant?"

"No, just black."

I sat across the table from him, sipping my coffee as he sipped his and imagining that, alternately, I was fucking him in the ass and the face. Under the table, my cock stood erect, pressing firmly against the coarse fabric of my jeans.

Grant swallowed his cup of coffee in two or three swigs. (It's a wonder he didn't burn his mouth!) "Well," he said, setting the cup back upon its saucer, "what did Stella say?"

"How was the coffee?"

"Great. Now, what's Stella's message?"

"You couldn't have tasted the coffee the way you drank that cup," I remonstrated gently. "Have another."

"No, thanks."

I was already out of my seat, and half way into the kitchen, my half-erect cock pointing the way before me. I hoped that Grant hadn't noticed my excitement. "I'll be just a moment."

"I don't want any more coffee," he called. His tone of voice told me that he was quite annoyed.

I pretended to be insensitive to his obvious irritation as, with a big smile, I set the cup before him.

He didn't touch it. "What message did Stella leave for me?"

"Please. Drink the coffee. I need to know what you think of it."

"I already told you," he said, his voice steely and his eyes cold. "It's great. It's fantastic. It's the best fucking coffee I ever tasted. Now, what's Stella's message?"

I could see that there was no hope of getting Grant to drink another sip of the coffee, so I said, "She didn't really come by."

Grant looked pissed. He was pissed. "Why the fuck did you tell me she'd left a message for me, then?" he demanded.

"I wanted you to try the coffee," I said.

"Why didn't you just invite me up for a cup, instead of making up a story about Stella stopping by and leaving a message for me with you?"

"Because you wouldn't have come up."

"I ought to whip your ass," Grant said, giving me a level look, "but, faggot that you are, you'd probably like that."

I'd rather fuck you, I thought, but, of course, I didn't tell Grant that. Although he's inferior to me psychologically, he's a lot bigger and stronger than I am. Besides, I thought, I'd already had my way with him. He just didn't know it. "I'm sorry," I answered.

"If you ever do anything like that again, I will kick your sorry faggot ass," he threatened.

"Don't worry," I promised, "I won't."

He rose, giving me a withering look. "Stupid faggot," he muttered, heading for my front door. He went out, slamming the door behind him so hard that it seemed to rattle in its frame.

I smiled as I poured myself another cup of coffee. Sniffing the wonderful aroma, I could detect just the faintest scent of my semen.

Grant had said that he didn't take cream in his coffee. Probably, he didn't--ordinarily. But he had this time. Right before he'd come home, I'd brewed the coffee we'd drunk together, spurting my semen into the pot as, masturbating, I'd thought of fucking him in the mouth. Watching my seed splatter against the sides and bottom of the coffeepot, I'd imagined that the glass surfaces were the inner walls of his cheeks and his wet, slick tongue.

The invasion had gone just as planned, and, right this moment, millions of my sperm were swimming inside Grant's mouth, esophagus, and tummy. I'd inseminated him, just as sure as if he'd sucked my cock and swallowed my semen. And this first time needn't be the last time, I reasoned. I might never get him upstairs to my apartment again, but I might get him to drink more semen-laced coffee or, in the summertime, he might enjoy a tall, frosty glass of iced tea, inside the cubes of which would be the frozen sperm of my ejaculate.

Salute! I toasted myself, lifting the rim of the cup to my lips. I sipped the coffee.

As Grant had said, it was delicious.