The Calling – Maxx Monroe, Matthew Figata
The Order is a secret society, which is woven within the margins of our world history. The members are the only ones who know the true nature of the organization and the needs of the men who address it.
When the Order asks for an apprentice, they don’t do it with language. He can hear words, but the meaning is conveyed in other ways and by other senses.
In the silent, air-conditioned hiss of his office, Master Figata asked Apprentice Monroe whether or not he was attracted to men. It wasn’t the first time Maxx had asked such a question – Master Kamp had also asked the boy this question in his initial interview with the Order.
Regardless of the language, and regardless of his choice of words, his body magnetism toward Figata’s grip was as clear a response as any. The boy’s lips parted in grateful release as the master stripped him of his belt, pants, and worries.
Apprentice Monroe found affection in being undressed by men… undeniable affection. He dreamed of being touched, caressed, kissed… and not just by any man, but by a man of power and reverence. A man exactly like Master Figata. Carved into the master’s face was the Order’s legacy and knowledge, and with it carried the kind of heat that Monroe melted and wanted to melt.
Master Figata’s gentle but firm hands pushed his apprentice across his desk. He grabbed Apprentice Monroe’s ass in his palms. The boy groaned as his pale cheeks parted. Figata’s tongue flicked in and out of his ass and weakened him.
He proved the truth there; a trembling hole cannot lie. He replaced his tongue with a finger and tested the boy’s input for willingness and flexibility. Monroe moaned incomprehensibly, wordless gasps that meant nothing in English, and everything to the Order.
A single authoritative slap on the back instructed the boy far more than a direct order ever could. It told him where to go and what to do. On the ground, on his knees he fell.
His lips instinctively found and licked his master’s sacred instrument. His head bobbed up and down, nestled in the master’s palm. His throat worked tirelessly. The boy’s tongue was slippery and his mouth wet and eager. Eager to taste the flesh of a man at the top of the Order, eager for just a drop of the wisdom and strength that comes from above.
The nervous and embarrassed boy who came for his first interview was, in the hands of the masters, reaching an understanding of his place within the Order. He was changing, slowly. And it was good—as good as the taste in his mouth.
