One person who sent me comments complained that the ending of this story (part 11) didn't have enough sex in it. One person also wanted a different outcome to the fight between Brad and Robby. So here is an alternative continuation of the story from the end of part 10. There will be 3 or 4 more episodes after this. Suggestions welcome, to antinous48@yahoo.co.nz.
As well as bullying, fighting, masturbation and oral sex, this story will now feature some anal sex, both consensual and forced, among eighteen-year-old males. Please go elsewhere if that troubles you!
As before, 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. Steve Dawson is a bit like a model called Connor at Corbin Fisher (a sort of bigger and beefier Jesse McCartney). And the closest I've found to my mental picture of Peter Petrowski is Conner at hmboys.com
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, how Brad intervened to protect Nicky when Nicky attacked Robby, and how Brad announced that he was joining the Spivak team. In part 10 Karl described the battle between track-and-field star Robby and muscleman Brad.
Now Nicky takes up the story.
I can't bear it any longer. Robby is an arrogant asshole, I know, he has slapped me around, he has called me a faggot, he has been the ringleader in this whole plot to kidnap and beat up my master Karl. All the same, before the business with Karl started, it was Robby that I had my biggest crush on ... and in this unexpected match- up against Brad, Robby has fought way better that I expected. He got the upper hand straight away. Brad had his back to the wall, literally. Brad's huge strength enabled him to escape, and Robby got hurt. But Robby come back. And how! The sight of the monstrous Titan, Brad, being totally dominated by Robby, the young Greek god, with his dimple-cheeked smile and his superb eighteen-year-old torso -- I was in rapture! Victory was in Robby's grasp!
But the Titan wasn't so easily tamed. That superb torso was subjected to a brutal counterattack. Robby was forced to give ground. He fought back bravely yet again, but the fightback was squashed. Now Robby had been karate-chopped on the neck, and, though he is back on his feet, he is clearly in serious difficulty. He seems to be having difficulty in focussing his eyes, and he's moving like he's wading through glue. But he's getting a grip on himself, he's not done for yet ...
I see their two faces in profile. Brad's face is cold, expressionless, inhuman, as his eyes bore into Robby's. As for Robby's face -- those thick locks of black wavy hair half-covering his forehead, those dark eyes that usually look down so smugly on lesser mortals, those lips that are so often curled into a self-satisfied grin -- well, it's a new Robby! He knows now that he is in the fight of his life. He responds to Brad's cold stare with a look that is just as hard, but hard in a different way: not cold hatred but hot defiance. Robby is tough, mentally as well as physically. That shouldn't have surprised me. He hasn't got to be our school's track-and-field champion just by admiring himself in the mirror. So if Brad wants to turn Robby into a whimpering wreck, begging for mercy, he has an uphill task! Yay, Robby! Hang in there, champ!
And yet ... and yet ... an uphill task for anyone else would hardly cause Brad to break a sweat. Besides, what outcome will satisfy Brad, in his present mood, other than the total humiliation of the cocky young Adonis? And I realize with a shudder: that's why Brad has not targeted Robby's face! It's so that Robby's admission of defeat will be clearly audible to us all, not blurred by broken teeth or swollen lips. In my mind, as if fast-forwarding a DVD, I can picture the end. Brad will have cynically refrained from administering a knock-out below, but his fists will have pummeled Robby until his skin is a mass of ugly blotches and his proud muscles are as limp as spaghetti. For the umpteenth time, so as to inflect yet more punishment on Robby's sagging body, Brad will wait while Robby staggers to his feet. But, sooner or later, all Robby's defiance will have drained away. I will see tears on his cheeks. I will put my hands to my ears, but I won't be able to block out the sound of his voice: 'Please, Brad, I beg you, I give in, please stop, I can't take any more ...'
No, it mustn't happen! Robby may be a jerk, but (dammit!) he is too ... Well, he is too brave to deserve that humiliation. No, I've got to admit, that's not it. Sure, Robby is showing courage. But the real reason I don't want to see Robby lose is that I don't want to see his luscious body beaten to a pulp. Yes, that's it. I can't deny it. Rightly or wrongly, that's why I am so concerned about Robby.
I work out a desperate plan. I stand up: '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 pauses in his torture of Robby. He advances on me, grim-faced. Robby, suddenly released, sits down heavily on the mat. He too peers at me, uncomprehending.
'What d'you mean, Nicky? You'd better explain! It'd better be good!'
Brad comes towards me, arms dangling loose but fists clenched ... Brad himself has protected me from Robby. Now who will protect me from Brad? He has beaten both Robby and my master Karl. In his present mood he could take on all five of us in that room at once and make mincemeat of us ...
'Well, Brad, you counted only three votes! You didn't count your own! And you were against carrying on with the tournament, weren't you? You said you agreed with Pete!'
'MY vote? But I'd joined the Spivak team, remember? It was the Fairfield team voting!'
Brad is looking puzzled but no longer so angry. He hasn't hit me yet. I swallow and take a deep breath and carry on.
'But when you fought Karl, you were on the Fairfield team then! So even though you switched teams, the Fairfield High vote isn't complete unless yours is counted!'
Brad folds his arms. 'Hmm ... You got a point there, Nicky! But what difference does it make? My vote would make it two in favor of continuing, two against. A tie. So, by the rules, the status quo would remain. The tournament would continue. Isn't that so?'
I take another deep breath. He's tolerated me so far, but he won't like this ...
'But you've got to count MY vote, too! Robby forced me into the Fairfield High team, remember? He forced me to hit Karl! So I have a say too! And my vote is ... that the tournament should cease! You and Robby should stop fighting! The vote is three to two!'
There is a pause. A long pause. Brad frowns. Robby blinks and looks up at me with his mouth open and a kind of awe on his face: it is dawning on him that I may be his unlikely savior. But Steve steps forward from where he has been leaning against a wall and shakes his head vehemently: 'No, Brad, no ...'.
The pause continues. All five of us -- Robby, Karl, me, Steve and Pete -- have our eyes on Brad. What will he decide?
'You're smart, Nicky. But a bit too smart. You can't change the rules in the middle just to let Robby off the hook. Because, yeah, Robby Farrell, the hot-shot athlete, is getting wasted! I didn't want to fight Robby, but Robby insisted. He challenged me, and I've got the right to accept that challenge.'
My throat is dry. Brad is still looking intently at me, his arms folded. But on his usually placid face is a chilling smile. Almost in a whisper, he adds: 'Besides, Nicky, if Robby is as good a fighter as he says he is, he'll come back and beat me, won't he? And you don't want to deny him that chance, do you? To show that he could have been the school's wrestling champ if he'd wanted?'
Now Brad turns to look down at Robby, who is still sitting on the mat, hunched forward. 'That's what YOU want too, isn't it, Robby? To show you're the superjock, the king of Fairfield High?'
Robby now leans back on his hands and glares up at Brad. Then he gets to
his feet slowly. He stands with feet apart, his arms dangling awkwardly. The shadows cast by the strip light hanging from the ceiling highlight his nipples and the bulge of his sweat-glistening pecs. The bulge of his penis, pointing rightwards inside his briefs, needs no highlighting. But I suddenly notice how smooth the insides of Robby's thighs are -- silky, pale, almost hairless. Brad's gnarled treetrunk thighs are smooth too -- but only because of the tight black lycra that covers them.
Yes, seeing them together like that ... the two jocks are about the same age. But whereas Robby is still just a gloriously hunky adolescent, Brad's body makes him look like a fully mature professional wrestler or weightlifter. He could be twenty-five or even thirty. So -- please, Robby, even if your body isn't fully grown yet, at least try to think like a grown man! Don't give way to adolescent bravado!
Robby takes his time to respond to Brad. His face is in shadow.
! Then he lifts his head and -- when I see the expression on Robby's face, my heart sinks. He is pouting, his dark brown eyes boring into Brad. Robby is still behaving like a twitchy truculent teenager. He tries to sound confident, but his voice is too loud and it quivers ever so slightly: 'I'm not aiming to be king of anything, van der Velden! I'm just aiming to whip your ass!'
It seems like if there's any way to make a bad situation worse, Robby will find it. How will he ever get out of the hole he's digging for himself? He might just as well have said: 'I'm trying not to let it show that I'm afraid of you, Brad. But I'm close to freaking out. It won't be hard for you to rip me to pieces!'
I stumble towards Brad, grab his arm, pull him round towards me -- anything to divert his attention away from suicidally reckless Robby. I manage to stammer: 'M-m- maybe you and Robby both need a rest, though. Ten minutes?'
At last, Brad smiles. 'You don't give up, do you, Nicky? OK, ten minutes. Robby's sure gonna need all the rest he can get!'
I grab Robby's arm and half-guide him, half-drag him to the sofa near the fridge. He sits down. 'Lean forward,' I order him. Puzzled, he obeys. 'I know how to do some physiotherapy. Just relax and let me work on your arms.' Losing no time, I begin to massage and squeeze his right biceps and delts.
'Ow, that hurts ... no ... go on ... oooh, that feels good!' Robby looks gratefully up at me. Then the obvious thought shows in his face: Why are you doing this for me? After I've treated you like shit? I give him a sort of frowning smile. My telepathic message is: No time for explanations now! Gotta get you in shape to face the man- mountain again! And Robby gives a little half-smile in return: Whatever the reason why you're doing this, Nicky -- thanks!
Karl approaches too. Without thinking, I give him an order. Yes, I, Nicholas, give an order to my master Karl! 'Karl, get some ice from the fridge and make an icepack somehow. Robby needs it for where Brad kicked him.'
Karl obeys, holding a plastic bag full of ice against the reddened patch on Robby's left flank that shows where his superb muscles (his latissimus dorsi and serratus anterior muscles, to be precise) have been pounded by Brad's heel. But why is Karl agreeing to do this for his enemy Robby? I am as puzzled as Robby must be. However, no time for explanations now. I move on to Robby's left arm, then his shoulders and neck, freshening up his trapezius muscles with a rapid tattoo of little karate chops. The place on Robby's neck where Brad's BIG karate chop had landed receives a special gentle massage.
Robby lifts his head and twists it from side to side, easing the tension in his neck. His black hair clings in damp snaky coils to his neck and cheeks. (All that sweat -- it's a reminder of the ordeal Robby has been through. And still has to go through! I suppress a strong urge to run my fingers through his hair and plant a consoling encouraging kiss on his cheek ...)
Robby turns his head to smile up at me, and the familiar dimple appears in his cheek: 'Thanks, Nicky, that felt so good!' (Oh joy, Robby's eyes have a sparkle in them now! My massage may not save you, Robby, but it's all I can offer, and I'm grateful that you're grateful!)
For the first time I see Robby's shoulders at close range from above. I allow my eyes to feast. There's the chunky rounded shape of Robby's deltoid muscles. There are his collar bones, each with a little hollow above it and the swell of a magnificent pectoral muscle below it. He lifts his arms, clasps his hands behing his head, stretches, then relaxes ... I catch a whiff of his underarm smell, then watch the muscles bunch and ripple over his shoulder blades. (Oh Robby, thank you, thank you, for this close-up multi-media display!)
Karl has finished with the icepack and is crouched close to Robby, whispering intently into Robby's ear. (Giving him advice? I hope so!) So ... do I dare? Yes, I do dare! Still standing behind Robby, I press my hands against his sides, just above his waist. (My right middle finger is just half an inch away from where the tip of his cock is outlined by the tight red cotton. But now is not the time ...) Then I move my hands upwards, applying pressure that oscillates gently back and forth between my palms and my fingers. My hands slide slowly over the satiny skin that covers those bands of firm muscle enclosing Robby's ribs. I reach as far as his armpits, my fingers traversing the bulge of his pecs. Then back down again ...
'Aaaah ... yesss ... Nicky, yesss ...' Robby is still listening closely to Karl, but at the same time he is arching his spine, stretching his neck, pressing the back of his head against my chest. I was pretty sure Robby would enjoy the feeling of my hands massaging his sides, soothing away the soreness. But the sensuousness of his reaction ... oh wow! Oh, you gorgeous concoction of strength and beauty and sexiness! (Oh, my cock is bursting!) Oh Robby, you've got to defeat the hideous monster Brad, you've just go to, otherwise I'll just die ...!
It feels like my cock is about to explode. But then Brad, who has been lounging on the other side of the gym, talking to Steve, interrupts us harshly: 'Ten minutes up, guys!'
Robby gets up and walks on to the mat. He stands proud and tall. From the other side, Brad walks towards him. Robby's red trunks draw attention to his narrow waist above, his strong thighs below. I try not to see, facing Robby, the grotesque bulk of Brad's torso. Instead I look at Brad's face. Brad's expression is cold, colder than ever. I shiver. I send a desperate telepathic message: Be strong, Robby! You can win, Robby!
I feel tears fill my eyes. I have to look away, just as I hear the first crunch of two bodies colliding ...
[to be continued]