Unmased and Exposed

Hey there fellow Litsters!

This is my first (and probably last) attempt at Gay Male. The inception of the story happened when a female author friend of mine (who adores this category) placed a bet with me that a straight guy (namely me) cannot write a Gay story. Here is my attempt at proving her wrong. I look forward to your comments and feedback here.

It is also my submission for the Halloween contest so please do vote.

DISCLAIMER-

This story contains scenes of non-consensual and semi-consensual sex as well as emotional distress. It also contains scenes of recreational drug use. If such material offends you, do not read further.

"Everyone's going to hurt you. You just have to decide who is worth the pain."

- Bob Marley

* *

People wear masks all the time. To hide who they are. To hide who they think they are. To hide who they want to be. The faces they present to the world are masks themselves. Masks of civilized decency hiding the office-going, suit wearing, cut-throat warrior within. Society exists as a collection of masks.

Except me. I am unmasked. I have been laid bare for all to see.

It is the Master's Halloween party. The gala event in his manor attracts a very select crowd every year. Tonight, I am the star attraction. As I come out on the marble dais, robed in satin and ermine, all eyes turn towards me. The glare of the spotlight feels uncomfortable at first, but I gradually get used to it and the audience recedes into the background.

There are no faces. Only Basque masks. Ornate and varied in design, they conceal the faces of the voyeurs behind them. I might not be able to see them, but I know they are people of considerable power and influence. Master does not keep lesser company than that. I do know who Master himself is, but I dare not say his name. The consequences would be far too grotesque.

I can only say you have seen him on television and on the cover of important magazines. He is a man whose reputation precedes him to even the remotest corner of the Earth. Business tycoon. Magnanimous philanthropist. Astronomically wealthy.

Which is all the more reason Master keeps his depravity hidden. The guests are carefully selected and invited through only the most secure channels. Disclosure is dealt with swiftly and brutally.

I remember the last to try, Dorian. He was the attraction of last years party. Urged on by his fellow prisoners (including me), he mustered up the guts to make a call to the New York Times. He took his chance with the phone when it was his turn to dust the main bedroom and Master was out inaugurating a new charity for cancer research. He could not contain his sobbing as he broke his story to the voice on the other end.

Someone high up in the hierarchy of the Times (possibly a guest at the party) came to know and informed the Master. I still remember the night Dorian was dragged from his cell, kicking and screaming. That look in his eyes still haunts me when two burly man carried him past my bars. The Master would punish him as he saw fit.

His screams echoed through the long empty halls for hours. They were muffled by the time they reached us down below, causing my hair to stand on end. Finally, the shrieks stopped. He had been punished enough.

Dorian was escorted back to his cell. He has not spoken since. One year on, he remains completely catatonic.

It is nothing new. Nothing out of the ordinary. Once in a while one of the Master's "special boys" will attempt to break free. It is his duty then to remind us all of our purpose.

My thoughts come back to the present. Dozens of pairs of eyes roam over my body, impatient for the show to begin. I take a deep breath and slide my robe off. My body is entirely in view now. Every square inch of my pale skin. I have taken great care to draw two symmetric tear drops around my eyes.

The black lines come down my face stop under my chin. I am your favourite Harlequin.

I hear a collective gasp. It gives me a small sense of pride. I am sure that they all think I have been painted white. I have not. No body paint in the world is quite as pale as my albinism afflicted skin. Every part of me is fairer than the polished Italian marble on which I stand.

I am beautiful. Even if I say so myself.

My performance begins in pin-drop silence. My left hand floats goes to my penis. It is not large, but well shaped and rounded. Grasping the shaft gently, I slowly move my fingers back and forth. The awestruck audience watches each stroke.

My eyes are drooped and my smile is melancholy. I have rehearsed my moment on the stage to perfection. Men and women from the highest echelons of society watch as my hands increase their pace.

Never rough, never ungainly, never lacking elegance, my strokes become faster and faster. It is harmonious, almost musical. My fingers dance gracefully along my milky white flesh. It grows harder in my hand. The familiar warmth begins in my groin.

Now I am close to my climax. The crowd senses this and wait eagerly. My face, however, does not deviate from my expression. My fingers are a blur now, pushing me ever closer to an imminent climax.

One final stroke and a white ribbon of of sperm ejects out. All the masked eyes follow its graceful parabolic trajectory. It hits the floor and splatters a foot or so in front of me. Obediently, I drop down to my hands and knees. The fruit of my labours lies a few inches from my face. Slowly, my tongue comes out and touches it.

The eyes now look down at my face, watching me eagerly lap up my jism. My tongue swirls and slurps around the small puddle until none of it remains. At last, I raise my face to the faceless crowd behind the glare of the light and smile meekly.

I am greeted by a muted applause as I get up to my feet. Master will be very happy with how I have entertained his guests. As for me, I am inured to shame and humiliation. It seems natural.

The show is not over yet. In fact, it is barely starting.

The prelude is over. Now for the main show.

Two hulking figures join me on stage. Their faces are hidden behind rubber masks, but I know them only too well. Ivan and Pieter, Master's favourite bodyguards. In public, they protect him from harm. In private, they watch over his slaves.

They were carefully hand picked from a wide selection of muscle-men. Ivan is a former

Spetsnaz

operative. His appetite for wanton and sadistic cruelty surpassed even what his colleagues could brook. His "interrogation" of a Serbian family suspected of being dissenters made the rest of his squad nauseous. Since his discharge from the

Spetsnaz

three years ago, he serves Master.

Pieter was a South African secret-police member dating back to the Apartheid era. He belonged to a generation of officers who had no qualms using electric cattle-prods on people. And that was when he was being gentle. When the Apartheid era ended, the secret-police was disbanded. Luckily for him, Master was more than happy to take him into his fold, even paying for his transport to New York.

They only wear masks as they approach me. The rest of their bodies are bare, covered in a mass of tattoos and bulging muscles. My fearful eyes are drawn to their bulging erections. Each of them defy human notions of length and girth.

For the final part of tonight's entertainment, I will be shared between Ivan and Pieter for the viewing pleasure of Master and his distinguished guests.

They will not be gentle, I have no illusions of that. The room is soundproof. No one will be able to hear my screams beyond these four walls as I get better acquainted to their cocks.

As I feel a pair of strong hands grasp my hips and second pair hold my jaw open, I close my eyes and drift off into memories.

I hope I have enough to tide me over the next hour or so.

* *

Growing up, I learnt one very powerful truth.

I was not completely useless. No one is completely useless. If nothing else, you can be made a bad example. A cautionary tale. In the eyes of my peers, my family, my teachers and everyone else who knew me, that was my use. I was their bad example.

They needed someone to scorn, to hurt, to shame so they could feel better about themselves. They needed a punching bag who would take the blows they yearned to give their frustrating and monotonous lives. They got me.

I was albino. I was gay. In their eyes, I was also sub-human. Unworthy of breathing the same air.

My father is a Gulf War veteran. He inherited strict Christian views from his Bible-thumping, abusive father. After the war, he became a prison guard at Rikers to feed us. Over there, he developed a powerful hatred towards any sort of homosexual contact, often resorting to military combat manoeuvres to separate and subdue inmates found indulging in his "ultimate sin". The authorities found it more convenient to look the other way.

He could not stop gawking at me when I was born. His piggish eyes were blinded by my dazzling complexion. I was an aberration to the natural order in his eyes. A spawn that should not have been.

I was hated even before I cried for the first time.

He was always a fearful alcoholic, but seeing his son pushed him over the edge. My poor mother had endured enough beatings before I was born, but could not take the fresh salvo of blows. One night, she just left, while my father was passed out on the floor, reeking of cheap gin.

That just made things worse. Now he had one more thing to blame me for.

And all this was still years before I came out.

* *

Eighteen now. In my final year of high school.

And these were supposed to be liberated times.

"Hey look. It's the white freak," said Shane Moskowitz. The corridor turned to see the figure that had entered. I wore a hoodie and clutched my books tightly. The ones close to me caught a glimpse of milky white while I scurried past the gawking eyes.

If only I could somehow stuff these books into my locker and then slink away, maybe I could make it to recess without an altercation. I opened the locker door, only to see it slammed back by a large fist. Trembling, I slowly turned to see the quarterback and jock-in-chief, Dustin Roth, with the ever-present smug smile on his face.

Dustin was well over six foot tall. His slick hair was parted neatly. His dark skin was the polar opposite of mine. His eyes and lips seemed locked in a perpetual display of disdainful condescension at the world, or rather at its inhabitants. Right now he fixed that demeaning glare at me.

"Leslie," he drawled, stretching the syllables. "Why if it ain't the fairest of them all."

A few snickers came from around him. I looked down, burning with shame. I tried opening the locker, but his burly fist steadfastly blocked it.

"What's the hurry, white boy?" he went on. "Don't you wanna show these guys some of that mayonnaise skin?"

I tried to slip under his arm with my books. Once I was in class with Mr Hendricks, I would be safe. My attempted escape was cut off by Shane. He grabbed my hands, causing my books to spill, and turned me around towards Dustin. I kicked and struggled, but Shane was a state level wrestler. His hammerlock hold had me immobile. Dustin held the hood of my overall and scanned the crowd gathered around us.

"Better get your shades out, coz here's a dazzler," and he pulled back my hood, exposing my pale face to everyone present. There were a few gasps and a few murmurs. Some people took out their camera phones and started snapping away vociferously.

I tried turning away but Dustin held my head firmly and forced it back towards the throng of onlookers. My straw-coloured hair, pale blue eyes and my skin made me a memento for everyone taking a picture to put on Facebook.

"Click away," Shane announced cheerfully. "Make him famous."

"What is going on there?" rumbled a deep baritone from the end of the corridor.

Dustin quickly let me go and backed away. Even Shane took a step back. The imposing form of Mr Bruce Hendricks came into view. He was a broad-shouldered giant of a man. In his late forties, he could still intimidate students at ease.

He waded through the crowd until he reached me. His angry gaze was fixed on the duo who were cowering against the lockers.

"The two of you come to my office later," he said firmly. Turning to the crowd he opened his thick lips again. "Anyone who puts a picture of Leslie on the internet shall be punished. Clear?"

Everybody nodded their heads and looked down.

"Now, what are you waiting around for? Go!" he barked, startling the crowd off in different directions.

I felt relieved. I was safe for the time being. Mr Hendricks was my class teacher and always looked out for me when I was bullied. He was the closest thing I had to an idol. Everybody knew I was gay as well, and he had a lot of saving to do.

I spent the rest of the morning in his shadow. In class, he commanded a certain fear among his students and they knew better than to pick on me again. Within five minutes of recess starting, I was bombarded by an array of paper planes, each containing an off-colour homosexual joke or something about my albinism.

How do you get three homos to sit on a barstool?

- Turn it upside down.

I shrugged my head and sighed. I was beyond the point of being angry or hurt. It was as futile as banging my head against a brick wall. I was a convenient bull's-eye for their jokes.

If only they were funny.

I had to return later that day for extra class. It was a chance to get my grade up and also a welcome relief from my father. There are so many times you can hear the word "faggot" in a day before deciding to leave.

On this particular day, I reached early. The football team practice was over and the proud team members basked in the bright sunshine outside. Some had a cheerleader hanging off their muscular arms.

Without exception, I got a complimentary jeer and catcall from all of them as I rushed inside. The main building was largely empty now. Mr Hendricks would arrive in half an hour. He was only to eager to spend his free time tutoring me.

"It's not like I have anything to do at home," he would say. "Teaching is all I do."

Which was true. His wife had divorced him two years prior and taken both their children. Teaching was probably a welcome change from a big empty apartment.

I walked up two flights of stairs to the main hallway. Those rooms bustling with activity a few hours before were now deathly quiet. Well almost.

A flicker of shadows caught my eye. It was in an empty classroom on the far end of the corridor. The silence and solitude left no doubt that two young scholars were experimenting with the finer points of biology.

In retrospect, I should have continued up the stairs towards the top floor. In that moment, I somehow felt impelled to take a peek. It was one of those idiot high-school decisions we all made. I regret mine a lot more.

Like a shadow, I crept to the door. Just one glimpse and I would be off. I knew the basics of what I would see. For an eighteen year old, it was a thrill. Besides, the guy might be hot. Something for me to admire.

The door was barely ajar, the gap not more than two fingers wide. I looked in for one quick peek before I would go for my class. Leaning against the frame, I got my glance.

Dustin held Shane against the board. Their lips mashed together in a rush of heated passion. Dustin's hands curled around his lover's head and drew him into his mouth. Shane pushed his hand up the back of Dustin's shirt and caressed his back.

I stood, awestruck at the sight before me. The two most openly homophobic guys in school. The best wrestler and the star quarterback. Two strutting paragons of machismo. My two chief tormentors. They were gay.

I leant against the wall, my heart pounding against my chest. It seemed so terribly bizarre. The scene seemed cut out from a parallel universe. I had to steal a swift glance to make sure it wasn't a mirage.

Sure enough, Dustin's tongue was engaged in a sloppy duel with his friend's. His hands were undoing the buckle of Shane's belt. They fumbled, but resumed with hurried urgency. Dustin was now slurping around his partner's neck. Shane clamped down on his lower lip to stifle his sound of pleasure.

The montage of male skin on skin had an aura of raw lust. My quest for a hasty peek grew longer. I could not turn away from the dark and tanned bodies writhing and gyrating against each other. The buckle was off now. Shane did not need to bother with a buckle since Dustin was still wearing his sports gear. He pushed his hand into his shorts.

The kissing continued as their hands grasped each other's organs. From my vantage point, I could only see their elbows shaking in rhythm as they jerked each other off. Their lips never disengaged even as their hands shook with an increasing urgency.

They were both really getting into it, when Shane opened his eyes just long enough to throw a glance at the door. He froze at the sliver of white. Dustin wondered why the hand on his cock stopped abruptly. His gaze followed Shane's across the room and his eyes narrowed.

I was frozen with shock. My legs had rooted themselves to the ground while they hurriedly pulled up their pants. It wasn't until I saw two menacing figures charging towards the door, did I get some motion back. It was too late though. I had barely made it four strides from my position, when I heard the door slam open. Two more strides and I felt a stunning blow to the back of my head.

It sent me sprawling to the floor. My books and stationery scattered in every direction. The impact of my chest hitting the floor expelled all the air from my lungs. I barely took a breath before I felt a fist grab the back of my collar and hoist me up. Slowly, I drew level with two pairs of angry eyes, dripping hatred.

"You bloody peeping Tom!" Shane angrily bellowed in my face. He wound up to rearrange a few of my facial features with his fist. I closed my eyes and braced for a crushing impact.

I was almost thankful to hear the sibilant drawl of Dustin. "Wait. I have a better idea."

The promise of the better idea meant Shane could not knock me out quite so soon. He paused to listen.

"Why don't we use this faggot to satisfy ourselves? We aren't gay, but this silly bit of curiosity between us has gone too far. Let's end it once and for all with him, shall we?"

Shane nodded his head in cold approval.

"Let's do that. Besides, I bet his mouth will be a welcome change from Tammy's. Boy, she can suck like a dream, but won't let me cum in her mouth. The bitch. How's Barbara in the bj department?" he asked, maintaining a firm grip on my collar.

"Don't even ask, bro," replied Dustin. "That woman will not suck me unless I eat her out, which I hate doing. Pussies are for fucking, not for kissing like retards. Her biology lab partner, Gwen, is more than happy to fill in for her though. A suck from Gwen is my good luck charm before a big match."

They kept chatting casually while they dragged me back into the empty classroom. I would have screamed, but for Shane's powerful arm choking me. He pushed me inside and Dustin locked the door behind us.

"Now where we before we were so rudely interrupted?" drawled Dustin. "Oh yes. We wanted to cum. Instead of each other's hands, we get to use this waste of flesh."

I struggled in vain against the powerful arm around my neck. Dustin slowly pulled down his boxers and took out his cock. It was the first live cock I had seen in front of me. My eyes grew wide with dread as I gauged his size. Lengthwise, girthwise, it was a lot more than I had thought. He pushed the mushroom head against my clamped lips.