This story features bullying 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. Comments welcome, to antinous48@yahoo.co.nz.
In part 1, Karl tells how he and his slave Nicky are kidnapped by Robby and his three Jock friends. Now Nicky begins to explain how he came to be Karl's slave, a few weeks earlier ...
It was an accident that changed my life. I was leaning across to speak to my buddy Abe, two seats to my right, and happened to stick my leg out in the aisle to my left, just as Karl Spivak was passing in a hurry. I felt something collide with my ankle, then I heard Karl's voice ('Shit!') and a complex crash as the books that Karl was carrying, a desk that he bumped into, and Karl himself (five foot ten of seventeen- year-old bone and muscle) hit the hard floor in a confused heap.
There was giggling. Some idiot said in a mock-pompous voice: 'Oh, Nicholas, that was unfortunate!' More giggling. I quickly straightened up and jerked my head round to the left. Karl was getting to his feet. 'Wow! Gee! I'm really sorry, Karl, I ...'
My voice faded as I realized that the incident was going to have consequences -- adverse consequences. Karl was not pleased. He was rubbing his left knee, and he winced as he put weight on his right leg. He was glowering at me. I should explain that I was the sort of fellow-student that Karl would never normally bother to look at. And I was happy that way. Why would tough dangerous Karl ever want to look at a well-behaved little nerd like me? If he were ever to do so, it must mean trouble of some kind. And now -- he wasn't just looking at me. That would have been worrying enough. No -- he was glaring at me with an expression of pure hatred.
Just then Mr Thomas came in, to begin the class. But there was time for Karl to grab my ear and twist it hard before limping back to his seat behind me. 'I'll see you after class, you little turd!' he hissed.
I won't give an account of the rest of that class, because I couldn't if I tried. I was vaguely aware of other students turning around and looking at me, puzzled. It seemed that Mr Thomas had asked me something, but I'd no idea what he had said. For once, brainy Nicholas didn't know the answer to a question about algebra. But what did that matter? I was in depair. I'd been careful always to keep out of the way of bigger, stronger boys. My plan for getting through life was to creep along unnoticed -- or, at least, noticed only by the teachers (they didn't count) and the other geeks (they didn't count either, because they were harmless). Now, here I was, noticed in the worst possible way by Spivak, the mean dude from the tough part of town. My plan was in ruins, I told myself. I was spiraling helplessly towards disaster ...
I should explain that though I didn't want to be noticed by other guys, I certainly noticed other guys myself. Not the nerdy guys and the girls that I discussed math with, and literature, and the Civil War. They weren't worthy of notice, not in the way I mean. But a guy like, say, Robby Flanders with the black wavy hair, whose shoulders I would admire as he sat in class two rows ahead to my right, and whose cutely dimpled cheeks I would look out for when he swiveled round to say something to his girlfriend. On days when Robby wore only a singlet, I would wait agog for him to stretch and yawn, clasping his hands behind his head, displaying those flawlessly proportioned delts and biceps and shoulder muscles ... It's not such a bad world, I used to think to myself, given that there's such beauty in it.
Then there were Robby's friends Steve Dawson, with floppy blond hair, and Pete Petrowski, crew-cut and square-jawed, with a dimpled chin. They were all material for delightful fantasies. I would fantasize about being mugged and injured in a dark backstreet before being rescued in the nick of time by Steve. In a brief fierce battle, Steve would display his formidable fighting skills. ('Leave him alone!' 'What the ...?' POW! 'Ooof!' 'Unnh!' 'Get him! Grab the fucker!' 'I got him!' 'Boy, you gonna learn what happens to punks who interfere with us, they get ...' THUD! 'Aaagh!' WHAM! 'Holy shit ! Stu's out cold! Hey, Wayne, help me ...' 'I said leave him alone!' BLAM! POW! 'Uuuuuh ...'.) Of the three bad guys who had attacked me, one would be flat on the sidewalk, another would be leaning senseless against the wall and the third would be slinking hurriedly away. Steve, battered and panting but victorious, would lift me up in his strong arms, cradling me against his shoulder as his blue eyes looked down at me with concern. He would escort me home and I would bathe his cuts and bruises ... Or else Pete would rescue me from drowning. As my eyelids flutter open, I see him kneeling beside me, water pouring off him, his chest heaving. His anxious expression turns into a grin of relief. 'Thank God I was in time, Nick,' he says, bending over me and stroking my cheek as I put my hand up to rest on his shoulder ...
Robby, Steve and Pete were all hotshot athletes, hanging out with each other and with Brainless Brad. 'Brainless Brad' -- well, that's not a name that anyone used to his face, of course, least of all someone like me. His real name was Brad van der Velden, and he he always wore an amiable smile. But he was kind of a parody of a teen muscleman. His neck was as wide as his head, and his bulging pecs and eight-pack abs were just a bit overdone for my taste.
You'll notice I haven't included in this list Karl Spivak, the guy I had just accidentally tripped. He wasn't an athlete, though he could have been if he had wanted. In fact, relations between him and Robby's crowd were not friendly. They had tried to persuade him to try for the senior football team at the beginning of the year, because he had the build for it. But he scornfully rejected the norms of our school and the middle-class aspirations of most of the kids there. He was a slacker, always slumped languidly in his seat, treating teachers with indifference bordering on contempt. As for his looks -- well, like I said, he had the build of a potential athlete, but he was no conventional Hollywood pinup. His straight hair was a rich honey- blond color, but it dangled untidily. He had acne on both cheeks. His nose was long but turned up at the tip, so one was always aware of his nostrils. One was aware also of his irregular teeth, because his mouth was always half open. As for his eyes and his arrogant smile ... I'll come back to them later.
Mr Thomas's class was the last before the lunch break. Sure enough, as soon as the bell rang, I sensed rather than saw Karl's presence in the aisle beside me. I didn't dare look up, but I couldn't help seeing his hands, menacingly close. His arms dangled loosely so that his knuckles brushed against the surface of my desk. They were just the ordinary hands of a seventeen-year-old male, the fingernails slightly grubby, harmless-seeming, half-covered by the sleeves of his denim jacket -- but I knew that any moment those hands could bunch into hard fists, or grab my neck and throttle me ...
In my state of terrified hyper-awareness, I registered what else I saw of Karl with unusual clarity. His feet, in dirty sneakers, were planted firmly apart and his pelvis was thrust forward so that his jeans-clad thighs leaned against the edge of my desk. His calves and thighs were clearly outlined by by the pale blue denim. The jeans had seen better days, and there was a horizonal rip just above his right knee. He wore an old brown leather belt, and, above his waistband, his unbuttoned denim jacket revealed his stomach, bulging just enough to highlight his navel under the stretched cotton of an old grey T-shirt ...
I didn't dare raise my head any higher, to look at his chest or his face. But Karl knew that he had my undivided attention. He spoke quietly, in a voice all the more chilling for being quiet. 'Listen up, you little creep. I'm gonna walk across the schoolyard to the storage sheds. You will follow me, at a respectful distance.' (There was heavy emphasis on 'respectful'.) 'Got that?'
'Y-yes, Karl.'
'Yes, SIR!'
'Yessir, yessir, I got it, I'm to follow you to the storage sheds ...'
'... because otherwise, later today, you'll be leavin' the school in an ambulance.'
I gulped and whimpered inwardly. I've never heard of anyone whimpering silently before, but that's what it felt like with me.
Karl didn't wait for me to say anything more. He walked through the classroom door, still limping slightly, without a backward glance. I scrambled to my feet and pushed through the melee of fellow-students so as to keep Karl in sight. Seeing him ahead of me, I became conscious again of how much bigger he was than me: five foot ten to my five foot six, and other dimensions to match. What was going through my head was: 'But ... but ... at least he said ... that is, if I do exactly what he tells me, at least I shouldn't need an ambulance ...'
We reached a storage shed which I was sure hadn't been used for years. To my surprise, Karl produced a key and unlocked the door. I followed him into the dusty dim room. I noticed some stacked school chairs, some desks, a broken-down sofa. Once we were inside, Karl locked the door. Then he turned to face me, grabbed me by the shoulders, and rammed my back against the wall ...
[to be continued]