This story features bullying and fighting and some masturbation and oral sex among high-school-age males. I visualize the character 'Karl Spivak' as looking like a model called Karl at boyfun.com. 'Brad' looks like a model called Matt at the same site. 'Robby' resembles a haughty-looking dark-haired model in bright yellow track pants, with rings in his ears, that I've seen in freebie ads for badpuppy.com. Comments welcome, to antinous48@yahoo.co.nz. ______
In part 1, Karl told how he and his slave Nicky were kidnapped by Robby and three other jocks. In part 2, Nicky began to explain how he came to be Karl's slave, and in parts 3-5 Karl and Nicky carried on the story. In part 6, Nicky described licking Karl's cock, and the instruction in street-fighting that Karl gave him. This brought the story up to the point described in part 1. In parts 7-9 Nicky and Karl described what happened after the kidnap: how Karl defeated Pete Petrowski and Steve Dawson but lost to Brad van der Velden, and then, after Robby had tried to make Nicky hit Karl, how Brad had intervened and announced that he was joining the Spivak team.
[Apologies, another continuity error. In part 9, I said that Karl has blue eyes. In fact, he has brown eyes, as I said earlier and as you'll see if you look for Karl at boyfun.]
Now Karl takes up the story. ____
Full of surprises is Nicky. He'd surprised me earlier with cock-licking aptitude. (Geez, I'd never dreamed what it could be like -- his little tongue, giving long slow licks, then flickering rapidly -- his lips, stroking, squeezing, sucking ...) Then he surprised us all at the storage shed by speaking up for me against the jocks. That really knocked me off balance, mentally I mean, and I still hadn't worked out what I felt about it. Or about him. (And what he maybe felt about ... um, me ... No, I won't get sidetracked into all that again.) Now Nicky flabbergasted us all by wading into Robby. Wow! To see Nick slam his fist into Robby's guts, then kick him, then punch him again -- it did me no end of good! After the squash job that Brad had done on me, I was shattered. That's even though I realized that it could have been a lot worse for me, because Brad had been holding back. (Why ...??) But now, seeing karate kid Nicholas in action was a real tonic. Not that the bespectacled nerd could realistically hope to defeat Robby, of course, and I didn't want to see Nicky get beaten up. But then Brad stepped in and took the wind out of Robby's sails completely.
'Time for me to join the Spivak team,' Brad said. It took a moment or two for my little old brain to process this piece of news. So the last of the four bouts would be between Robby and ... Brad!
I had time to mull this over while Steve was reacting to Brad's instruction to let go of me. Steve was still holding on to my left arm pretty tight. Now I saw his eyes flick around the room, calculating the odds. There was Pete, kind of off on his own, sulking. So Steve realized he couldn't expect any help from that quarter. And there was Robby, immobilized for the time being in Brad's grip. While on the other side there was me (tired but still with some fight in me), and little Nicky (not to be ignored!), and ... big Brad. Two against three. So Steve opted for caution. He did what Brad had told him. He let go of me and went and leaned against the wall, arms folded, looking mighty sour.
Brad continued. 'OK, like I said, IF we're gonna carry on with this, I'm joining the Spivak team. So let's have a vote, you Fairfield High guys. Does the tournament carry on, or do we stop now? In which case Karl wins, two to one. Pete, how do you vote?'
Pete lifted his head and said morosely: 'This whole thing has been a bad mistake. I vote we stop.'
'OK, Pete. And I think you made the right choice. Robby, what do you say?' Brad let go of Robby at this point. Robby stepped away from him, puffed his chest out and glared around at us all.
'Hell, I vote we carry on! I'm not gonna vote to have Fairfield High chicken out! We gotta finish what we ... started ...' His voice trailed away as the implications sank in: carrying on meant him, Robby, fighting not Karl but Brad.
I saw Robby's eyes fix on Steve. Steve had the crucial last vote. Steve could yet save him! I could see it in Robby's face: he was trying to carry on being his usual superconfident arrogant self, but something in his eyes said: 'It's OK, Steve, I really won't mind if you agree with Pete, don't think you gotta side with me ... That is ... oh please, Steve, please let me off the hook, please say no!'
Brad too looked questioningly at Steve. Steve took his time to answer. He sauntered forward from the wall and stood smirking at Robby, shifting his weight languidly from foot to foot. Then he turned towards Brad: 'Well, Robby said at the beginning he was sure the Spivak team wouldn't want to give up in the middle of the tournament. And they haven't given up. So I think Robby's right, I don't think the Fairfield High team should give up either. Besides -- we haven't seen Robby in action yet, administering just punishment on behalf of our school. It's like Robby has saved the best for last, and that's a treat I've been looking forward to!'
Steve said all this deadpan, facing Brad. Then at the end he turned towards Robby and gave him a friendly smile. 'Friendly smile'? -- yeah, right! More a sarcastic leer.
Robby tried to smile back. Emphasis on 'tried'! Dammit, I almost felt sorry for the guy. He'd sure dug a hole for himself. Now how would he get out?
Brad, cool and calm as ever, positioned himself on the mat, waiting for Robby to get ready. Robby pulled off his shoes and his baggy khaki pants, then pulled over his head his dark blue muscle shirt (you know -- one of those tight tank tops that guys wear who are proud of their muscles). There he was, standing on the other side of the mat from Brad, wearing only red briefs, very brief ones, like a speedo.
Perhaps it's time to give you more of a rundown on Robby Flanders, glamorboy of Fairfield High. He is tall (about the same height as Pete Petrowski, just a little bit taller than me). He has wavy black hair, rather long, coming down over his ears and down his neck. He has dark brown eyes, a long straight nose, a little rosebud mouth. He usually has a haughty expression. If he smiles, it's a condescending smile. It's like he's saying: 'I know I'm breathtakingly handsome, but I can't help it. Sorry, guys, I know it's tough for you being overshadowed by me. But, hey, what with my Greek-god profile and my perfect physique, and being our school's top track-and-field athlete, not to mention an A student -- how can I help it if the girls all swoon over me? Nothing I can do about it!'
'Perfect physique' I just said. Well, so it should be, given the time and effort and money that Robby devotes to it. Everyone knows that with his expensive gym equipment he works on every muscle and muscle group individually, so that his whole body is beautifully proportioned. No fat, but no grotesque bulges of hard muscle either. If the word 'narcissistic' hadn't been invented, it would have to be invented to describe Robby. Besides, like Emma Woodhouse at the beginning of that Jane Austen book, he has got through life so far having had pretty much all his own way. (That surprised you, huh? It's Nicky's influence again. He put me on to it. A smart lady, that Jane -- funny, too.)
But is our Robby getting his own way now? He is not. And the experience is a shock to him. So it's time for him to embark on a steep learning curve. On one side we have handsome supercilious Robby, with his smooth designer muscles and his skimpy briefs containing (yes, it's obvious) a formidable package. On the other side is man-mountain Brad, the amiable bone-crusher. So is the young Greek god going to learn humility?
It seems not. In the shock of what's happening, Robby's brains have gone on vacation. He takes it into his head to make the following speech: 'Hey Brad! Remember the wrestling try-outs at the beginning of the year? The coach wanted me on the wrestling team! I could have been, only I chose track and field! So don't go thinking that the Spivak team has this tournament sewn up! I'm gonna beat you, you hear?' And there's a real snarl of contempt when he says 'Spivak team'. Obnoxious jerk!
When you're in a hole, you should stop digging, they say. Well, it seems Robby hasn't learned this.
Amiable, calm, brainless Brad: I've never seen him angry. Well, he's angry now -- not exploding, but cold and controlled. And that's all the more chilling. He replies to Robby, his voice low but with sarcastic emphasis: 'I hear you, Flanders. Well then, you won't want me to go easy on you, will you? That would be insulting to a REAL WRESTLER like you!'
Robby sees the expression on Brad's face. He swallows nervously. Ooops ... but you can't unsay it now, Flanders! You just gotta do the best you can! Those nice muscles of yours can handle weights and springs and levers OK. Let's see if they can handle a workout of a different kind!
It begins. Robby lowers his head and charges Brad like a bull. His left shoulder hits Brad in the stomach and propels him back against the wall. Brad seems taken by surprise. Brad plants his hands on Robby's shoulders to push him away, but Robby is still in close enough to land several heavy punches to Brad's abs. Then Robby backs off and, before Brad can counterattack, charges in again, this time with his right shoulder. Ooof! Brad is frowning. Who is it who is on a learning curve now?! Perhaps I had underestimated Robby. Perhaps the arrogant prick really has got something to boast about in the muscle department, more than just his suitability for modeling underwear.
Then Brad leans forward over Robby's bent back and gets his arms around Robby's torso. Suddenly Robby is up in the air -- lifted as easily as if he were a big soft toy! Robby is upside down, his legs in the air, his arms flailing, with Brad's arms around his middle. And Brad is squeezing tight, concentrating the pressure on Robby's abs. Robby is glaring out at us spectators, his face upside down, huffing and puffing, but at a loss -- for the moment.
Only for a moment, however. Robby's legs are resting on Brad's shoulders. Now Robby crosses his ankles behind Brad's head and squeezes. Ouch! Brad's head is trapped in a leg scissors, being ground between Robby's knees. And I mean 'ground'. The expression on Brad's face shows he is not comfortable. Robby's thighs are powerful, the sideways pressure must be massive, and he is kneading away at Brad's head as if it were a lump of dough. Meanwhile Brad is cranking up the pressure on Robby's abs, and the noises that Robby is making ('Nnnh! Unnnh! Mmmf!') show that he isn't happy either. A standoff!
Brad can break the stand-off if he can slam Robby's head to the mat. Punished with a pro-wrestling-style pile-driver, Robby would be be too dazed to maintain the leg scissors. Two problems, though. First, Robby's leg hold on Brad means that Brad can't easily get Robby's head down to floor level. Second, Robby has foreseen the risk and has planted his hands on the floor, above his head (or below his head?), so that his arms are partly supporting him and can cushion any pile-driver slam.
Robby has no obvious way to bread the deadlock except by hurting Brad's head and neck more. And, sure enough, he tries this. He not only squeezes and kneads with his thigh. He also pulls his knees apart several times and slams them together against Brad's ears. Ooof! Brad's head is getting a real pummeling. He frowns, grimaces, snorts ...
But Brad finds a way out. Robby's hands are on the mat just in front of Brad's feet. All it needs is for Brad to lift his left foot and smash his bare heel down on the back of Robby's left hand, with the force of his colossal thigh and calf muscles ... 'Aeee!' Robby yells, and whisks his hand away. Now the same treatment is administered to Robby's right hand. 'Ahh!' Robby's upside-down face is now beetroot red, his mouth open, his eyes screwed shut, as he clutches one hand with the other, trying to massage the pain away.
For Brad now the coast is clear. He drops to his knees and ... THUD! Robby's head hits the mat. Instantly he releases his leg hold and rolls off Brad.
Robby lies on his side on the mat, curled up. He rubs his head, then pulls his hand away, wincing. His hand hurts as much as his head does, I guess. He cradles his right hand in his left, flexing and unflexing his fingers. No bones broken there, at least. His eyes are open but staring unfocussed at the mat. His mouth is wide open too as he pants and gasps. Not used to pain, evidently! Not the usual smug self-satisfied Robby!
'Good work, Brad.' This is Steve speaking. 'I'm not sorry to see Flanders taken down a peg. We came here to punish Karl, but, hey -- if it's Robby that's punished instead, that's cool too!'
Shit! I'm no friend of Robby. But I can't help feeling for the guy a little now. If he has friends like that, he sure doesn't need enemies. So it's my turn to speak. 'Seems to me you're the one who deserves punishment, Dawson! And I already handed it to you, remember? You were crying and screaming for me to stop, remember? Or d'you want me to remind ya?'
Now I'm standing up, fists clenched, threatening. Steve faces to me in a similar posture. Brad pushes us apart: 'C'mon, guys, cool it ...' There's a bit more yelling and cursing before we each back off and sit down. (To be honest, in my present state I'm not really keen to take on Steve again.) Brad is standing in the middle of the mat, with Robby crouching behind him ...
We had forgotten about Robby. I guess we thought he was finished. But now he showed us otherwise. 'Ooop ...!' Brad is suddenly toppling backwards! Robby has, like, exploded underneath him! He has rammed his right shoulder up between Brad's legs and is lifting Brad up -- now Brad is sliding down Robby's back, his legs in the air -- now Robby is standing -- he spins round, grabs both Brad's ankles and flips him over on to his front -- then Robby catapults himself on top of Brad! And, before Brad has had time to react, Robby has trapped Brad's right leg in a leg scissors (rather like Brad did to me) and is forcing Brad's right arm up behind his back in a hammerlock (just like I did to Steve)!
Wow! It has all happened so fast, I'm stunned! There we all were, writing Robby off as a pretty boy with nice muscles to look at but a cry-baby who can't hack it when the going gets tough. Like Pete, in fact. But now he's showing us different. Yay, Robby ...! I have to remind myself I'm supposed to be on Brad's side, now that Brad has joined the Spivak team. All the same, I look at Robby with new respect as I sit back to enjoy the action between him and Brad.
At first, there's not much action. Brad's right arm muscles are strong, like all his muscles. But are they strong enough to get out of Robby's hammerlock? No, not when Robby uses both hands to bend Brad's arm up into a really tight lock, so that any effort to get free on Brad's part is fruitless and just makes the pain worse. So what can Brad do with his left arm? He gropes around behind himself, trying to grab at Robby. But, Robby having got the armlock secure, reckons that only his right hand is needed now to hold it in position. (After all, I've got to admit, Robby has probably the strongest arms in our school, after Brad, or maybe second equal with Steve.) So now with his left hand it's easy for Robby to get hold of Brad's left wrist and pin his arm to the mat.
So there we have it. The man-mountain is immobilized. All those carefully manufactured muscles of Robby's can do some real work as well as look pretty. And they sure are pretty, just now, as I look at Robby sideways on.. His six- pack, nicely defined, leads the eye up to his full pecs with their neat half-moon contour just below his nipples. Then the eye travels to his shoulders and his arms, all sheathed in powerful muscle, just like in a Greek statue. I can see what the girls see in Robby. (Dare I say it? Yes, I dare say it now. Blame Nicky's influence! I can see what I see in Robby too.)
Robby's face is tense with concentration. His lips are slightly parted as he stares down at Brad. Dark wavy locks dangle over his forehead and stick to his sweaty cheeks. But, as the seconds pass and Brad can do no more than grunt and squirm, the right-hand side of his face squashed into the canvas, Robby begins to look more relaxed. The old superior smile is making a reappearance.
'I guess the Fairfield High team squares the tournament after all, huh? Two wins each! You ready to submit now, Brad?'
Brad says nothing. There is silence for a couple of seconds. Robby looks up, looks around at us, smiling ...
WHAM! Robby's whole body shudders, like a building that's been rammed by a truck. He looks down to his left ...
WHAM! WHAM!
It's Brad's left heel, slamming into Robby's side. Not the most effective place for a blow, but Brad has no choice. Besides, any blow from Brad is effective.
Robby is frowning now, shifting himself rightwards, trying to reduce his exposure to that massive heel, powered again by those terrifying leg muscles. Robby's got to figure out what to do, fast ... Quick, Robby, quick! You gotta respond! (Hey, I'm cheering on the Fairfield High team now! What the hell, Robby deserves it, no one would have guessed that he could come back the way he has and dominate Brad, I don't want to see him ... I don't want to see his ... (gulp!) ... his really neat cute body all mangled and squashed ...)
But in shifting rightward, Robby slackens the pressure of the hammerlock. Robby's right arm muscles are powered up again, pushing back, struggling to get free. Robby cranks up the pressure again with his right arm to retain control. But while concentrating on that, he's slackened his grip on on Brad's left wrist. Robby's left bicep swells up like a football as he bends his left arm. Just barely, Robby keeps his grip on the wrist. But Brad wrenches, twists, wrenches again -- and, at the same time, another WHAM!
At last Robby's fingers uncurl. His head droops. I can see the red mark on Robby's side where Brad's heel has been landing. Robby's ribs must hurt!
Robby's left hand is resting on the mat now, near Brad's. Quick, Robby, you can grab his wrist again! You can ...
But it's Brad who grabs Robby's wrist. I see the look of horror on Robby's face as he feels those encircling fingers. And now it's like a volcano is erupting under Robby. He still has the leg lock and the arm lock on Brad. But it's as if the arm lock isn't hurting Brad any more, or else he is blotting out the pain. He thrusts up with his left leg and straightens his left arm, pushing down hard on Robby's hand that he's gripping. I hear Robby's indrawn breath -- and I remember that both his hands must still be sore from being stamped on.
The sideview that I had of Robby's six-pack and pecs and muscular shoulder -- that view vanishes now as Robby topples over rightwards, with Brad rolling on top. Now what I see is Robby with his lower back and his butt on the mat, with Brad sitting on him. I have a close-up view of their two right arms, bent up between Robby's chest and Brad's back, straining against each other. One is the arm of a fine well-muscled teen athlete. The other arm, with its grotesque bulges, is -- well, it could belong to the Terminator. Robby is still desperately trying to maintain the arm lock. But it's slipping -- Brad is bending forward, his butt bearing down on Robby's abs, looking over his right shoulder, straightening his right arm -- Robby can't control it any more -- Robby's hold is broken! That fine well- muscled right arm flops limply to the mat. Meanwhile, Robby's left wrist is still firmly in Brad's grip.
Robby keeps his head and shoulders up. He knows he can't just sink back to the mat, or it will be all over. He props himself on his right elbow, panting. He frowns and shakes his head, as if to clear his brain.
Yes, concentrate, Robby, concentrate! Do something! You've still got a leg lock on Brad's right leg! You're a strong guy, your torso is ... yeah ... the feel of it, up close, would be ... oh, yeah, man, my hand on your neck, sliding down over your smooth skin, like satin ... your pecs ... your hot breath on my cheek ... (Oh no, this isn't helping! Daydreams won't help Robby!)
What I mean is ... please, Robby, I beg you, man! Fight him back! Show us that it doesn't have to be brute strength and ugliness that always win!
But even as I say this to Robby in my mind, I know that the brave fight that he has put up against Brad up to now is already way beyond what I could have achieved. Can I realistically ask for more?
That leg lock -- Brad turns his mind to it too. He slams that dangerous left heel of his down on to Robby's left thigh a few times, just to soften him up I guess. Then he begins to try to insinuate his foot between Robby's left knee and his own right knee, so that with his two powerful legs together he can prise Robby's legs apart.
Robby tries a diversionary tactic. His left arm is immobilized, held flat on the mat by Brad's left hand. But Robby can still use his right fist. That means he can no longer prop himself up on his right elbow, unfortunately. So he allows himself to sink back on to the mat while punching with his fist whatever bits of Brad's body he can reach. Yay! Giving Brad a taste of his own medicine! Only it's punches, not kicks, this time.
In the position he's in, Robby can't put any body weight behind those punches. Even so, the power of them, propelled by the second strongest arm muscles at Fairfield High, is considerable. We watchers can tell that by Brad's reaction. He frowns and glares back at Robby over his right shoulder. Brad's attempt to prise open Robby's leg lock ceases for the moment. There's a sort of desperate glee on Robby's face as he hammers away at Brad's back and side. Keep it up, Robby, keep it up! (Yet this hammering by itself isn't going to defeat Brad. So what's your next move gonna be, Robby? Not clear ...)
Suddenly, without any warning, Brad rolls rightwards, taking Robby with him. Brad is now lying on his right side on the mat, still with his inexorable grip on Robby's left wrist. More to the point -- Robby's right arm is trapped under Brad's bulk. The punches cease. At the same time -- a final jab from Brad's left heel breaks through Robby's resistance, and Brad's right leg is free.
Instantly the man-mountain stands up. Robby begins to stagger to his feet too. But Brad is behind him. Robby is almost fully upright, turning to face Brad ... I get my first good view that day of Robby from behind: his broad shoulders tapering to a slim waist, his lightly tanned unblemished skin, the dark locks of hair snaking down over the nape of his neck, the clear outlines of his muscles around his shoulder blades, his neat butt, the smoothly curved profile of his mighty thighs, his muscular calves ...
But suddenly those legs begin to buckle. Robby is toppling backwards and sideways. He crashes to the mat, landing on his left side. Then he rolls over on to his back, his face in profile with eyes open but his expression totally blank, dazed ... It was a slashing diagonal blow from Brad, the edge of his hand hitting the right side of Robby's neck.
Robby is not unconscious, but he seems like he is drunk or sleep-walking. He slowly struggles upright again. Brad does nothing to hinder him. Robby stands six inches from Brad, legs apart, teetering but managing to keep his balance. They are sideways on to me now. Robby frowns, stuggling to focus. He knows he has to fight this guy. With his right hand he pushes against Brad's chest, but weakly. Brad's face is calm, expressionless -- inhuman. He puts his arms around Robby's waist and squeezes. A bearhug. Robby grunts. His frown deepens. With one hand Robby gropes for a hold on the arms tightening around his middle, but he can do nothing to loosen them. He puts the other hand under Brad's chin and pushes, but Brad's huge neck muscles yield not even an inch. (Hit him under his nose, you ninny!) Brad lifts Robby and swings him vigorously from side to side to side, as easily as if he were playing a game with a toddler. Robby's legs dangle helplessly ...
I can see what Brad is doing. He doesn't want to knock Robby out or get him to submit him quickly. He wants to take him to pieces slowly, to humiliate him. Well, isn't that just what Robby was threatening me with? Isn't Brad on behalf of the Spivak team just turning the tables? So why am I so upset? Well, for more than one reason. This is a strange day, I can't keep up with how my thoughts and feelings are being tossed around. Anyway, no time for that now. This has got to stop. I've got to stop it. Even though, to challenge Brad again myself, I ... At the thought of it I'm sweating even though I feel cold ...
I stand up and walk towards Brad and Robby ...
But Nicky (Nicky again!) gets in first. He stands up and says in a loud but trembling voice: 'Brad! Stop! When you took that vote -- about carrying on the tournament or not -- you didn't do it right! You gotta do it again!'
Brad's head jerks in Nicky's direction. The cold inhuman look is replaced by one of astonishment. Brad drops Robby, who flops to the mat and sits there, he too looking blearily up at Nicky. I notice that someone has given Nicky back his spectacles. Nicky stands there looking terrified but determined. I've seen that look before, back in the storage shed. I can't help smiling. Hey, Nicky, you amazing little guy, you got guts! Nicky, I ... it's like ... it's a privilege, knowing you, Nicky! A real privilege! Anyone ever told you that? Because, if not, I ... maybe I ... but then ... why would you ...
Brad's voice cuts short these confused musings. 'What do you mean, Nicky? You'd better explain! It'd better be good!'
The man-mountain advances towards the little nerd ...
[to be continued]