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. 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. In part 3, Karl took up the story, describing the first task that he as master set for his slave Nicky. In part 4, Nicky described how his master Karl came to dub him 'toe-sucker extraordinaire', and ordered him to report for duty again the next day. In part 5, Karl talked about Nicky's rebellion that wasn't, and the task that Nicky was set to make amends for it. 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.
Now Nicky resumes again. ______
After my first session in the old storage shed with Karl, I had let Abe and some other friends know about Karl's prowess in beating up a twenty-five-year-old when he was only sixteen. The resulting gossip reinforced Karl's reputation in the way he wanted: he was a dude not to be messed with. But would people notice our further meetings -- our simultaneous lunch-hour disappearances a couple of times a week? And was Karl the only person with an unofficial key to the storage shed? I guess neither of us worried about those possibilities. Well, we were dumb. We got an unwelcome answer to both questions on that fateful day when we entered the shed and found we were not alone. People were waiting for us. They converged on us out of the shadows. Who -- ? In the dim light all I could make out at first was that it was four guys. Then I saw that it was four guys not to be messed with -- the four most prominent athletes in the school: Robby, Steve, Pete and Brad.
I won't go into detail on what happened next in the shed. [See part 1.] Suffice to say that Robby made to Karl and me an offer we couldn't refuse: to visit Robby's own basement gym for a wrestling match.
As we walked across the school yard to Robby's van (it seemed like a long long walk), no one spoke. I realized now that what I had blurted out in the shed had only made matters worse. My thoughts were in turmoil. It was clear that this wrestling match would have no strict rules and no referee. And ... what was it that Robby had said? 'To feast your eyes on thugboy Karl being SLOOOWLY dismantled.' I shuddered. That could mean only one thing: Robby and his well-muscled friends would take it in turn to wear Karl down. A team with only one member would confront a team with four members. How would it be billed? "The four jocks versus all-conquering Karl"? Yes, I had called him 'my all-conquering master' when I had first begun to lick his cock. I had heard his moans of gratitude. He had rewarded me generously with the sight of his glorious body naked. My humble eager hands had been permitted to stroke his strong thigh, his smooth belly, his soft dangling nutsack. (My cock leaped to attention at the memory.) But I knew that even Karl the ruff tuff streetfighter, against this opposition ... no matter how strong and brave he was ... That is, unless I ... but how ... I would be useless ...
I looked sideways at Karl, hoping for a glance from him, a hint of a plan, something to encourage me or give me guidance. But he just stared straight ahead, blank and grim, ignoring me. Oh Karl, if only you knew ... how I ... but you DO know, you just don't want to acknowledge ...!
The van had three seats abreast in front, three behind. Karl was shoved in the back, between Brad and Steve. I found myself in front, next to Robby in the driver's seat with Pete on my right. Robby drove off. Pete's arm was draped across the back of the seat behind me. I looked sideways at him. He was wearing cut-off blue jeans, cut off really short. From their ragged edges his smooth tanned thighs emerged, the lean muscular thighs of a swimming champion. A month or so earlier, what wouldn't I have been given to where I was then, sitting right close to wholesome handsome Peter Petrowski, with his arm casually resting just an inch from the back of my neck? I let my eyes travel upward, so I was looking furtively sidelong at Pete's chest. Oh my! He was wearing one of those white singlets with narrow shoulder straps and huge armholes that expose most of the wearer's flank. It was tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination so far as the contours of his chest were concerned.
Pete didn't seem to be looking at me. Yet, as my gaze lingered on his left nipple, his splayed his legs so that his left thigh brushed against my right leg ever so lightly. At the same time, I felt his arm touch the back of my neck. He turned his head slightly in my direction ...
Whaaat? No, surely not. It had to be my fevered imagination. Blushing, I jerked my head back so as to look straight forward through the windscreen. Immediately, Pete drew his knees primly together and removed his arm from the back of my seat. For the brief remainder of the drive, he sat with folded arms, looking out of the window to the right.
When we got out of the van, Karl and the other jocks walked ahead of Pete and me towards Robby's basement gym. The back view of Karl in his old check workshirt, the sleeves rolled up, and his shabby jeans with that old brown leather belt and the dirty sneakers -- how he contrasted with Robby and Brad and Steve in their designer casual gear! But nothing could detract from Karl's cute butt -- the elegant curve of his neck where it met his shoulders -- and (oh! I felt a kind of lurch in my stomach!) the brief glimpse of his face in profile (those blue eyes, that honey-blond hair!) as he glanced quickly behind, looking (how can I describe it?) defiant but puzzled and anxious at the same time.
Suddenly I felt Pete's hand on my shoulder. He was whispering something urgently. I caught: '... sorry Robby called you a faggot ... talk again later.' Robby, ahead of us, turned to usher in his guests: 'C'mon, everyone inside and downstairs.' Pete's hand dropped abruptly to his side.
Once we were through the door, Robby locked it ostentatiously, tossing the key in his hand before putting it in his pocket. 'My parents will be out all evening. But just to be on the safe side ... we don't want anyone interrupting our fun, do we?'
'Yeah, well, how's the fun going to be organized?' asked Steve. I suspected this was a pre-arranged question, because the answer from Robby came so pat.
'Well, like you all know, it's the Fairfield High School team against the Spivak team. I guess it's a pity that one team's larger than the other, but that's how the cookie crumbles. The Spivak team has just one member to fight in all four bouts. But don't worry -- we'll make sure that the Spivak team is represented in every bout. The Spivak team won't want to withdraw, will it, Karl? Even if it loses -- and loses -- and loses again! It will still keep coming back for more ... lessons in punishment. Or should I say: lessons in humility. Because we're all gonna learn something here tonight. We're gonna learn what words Karl chooses when all four bouts are over. That's when he'll apologize humbly to the Fairfield High School team for his contemptuous and arrogant attitude towards our school. Oh, and for bullying little Nicky, too. Yes, I'm really looking forward to hearing what Karl says! We don't normally think of Karl as an eloquent speaker, do we? But that's gonna change! We're gonna hear from Karl tonight a truly eloquent speech! An eloquent speech of hearfelt -- yes -- heartfelt and -- truly abject apology!'
Steve snickered. Brad and Pete were frowning, arms folded, staring at the floor. But Robby's chilling silky tone terrified me, and it had an effect on Karl too. Hearing what was in store for him, Karl turned away from Robby, his head bowed, his hands clasped behind his neck, as if instinctively seeking shelter from a coming onslaught. But then he raised his head again and turned to face Robby with folded arms, saying in a voice that was as firm as he could make it -- that is, pretty firm, but still with a tremble at the start: 'Apology my ass! Your may be four against one (real brave guys you are), but some of you are gonna regret getting into this!'
Robby continued. 'Victory in each bout is by submission or a knock-out. No time limits, but after the first bout we'll have a break for sandwiches. (There's food in the fridge over there.) The only rules are: no eye-gouging and no biting. I drew lots earlier for the order of the bouts. Pete will be first, then Steve, then Brad, then me.'
Pete looked startled. His mouth opened. Before he could say anything, Robby asked sharply: 'Anyone got a problem with that?' There was silence.
So now I was to see Karl fighting Pete Petrowski, the swimming star pin-up who had been (hadn't he?) making tentative overtures to me in the van! Now that I had got my head round the idea that that could be possible, it seemed more and more probable. After all, though I was a geek who wore spectacles, I knew I wasn't ugly. And, now I came to think of it, there were some things I had noticed about Pete in the past ... What's more, he had apologized for Robby's use of the word 'faggot', and had said he wanted to talk more to me later. So handsome Pete (ahem) liked me! Perhaps he saw himself as having a mission to liberate me from enslavement to a cruel bully! How did I feel about this whole situation? Confused, that's how I felt!
In the middle of the big basement was a wrestling mat. Karl stripped off his shirt and jeans and stood in the middle of it, wearing nothing but his pale blue briefs. He seemed to have regained his usual confidence and arrogance. He stood with legs apart, chest out, arms dangling and fists loosely clenched. Yes, few eighteen-year-olds could match the Spivak physique. (Though in that very room there were a couple who could ...) Karl, with his mouth slightly open (as usual) and strands of blond hair dangling over his forehead, was now the cold hard street-fighting veteran. He glowered at Pete. 'Bring it on, Petrowski', he said, in a low voice.
Facing Karl, Pete was still wearing his singlet and cut-off jeans. Pete's torso was beautifully sculpted but slimmer than Karl's. It was obvious that Karl was the heavier of the two. A treacherous thought went through my head: 'Oh, Pete, be careful! He's ruthless!' I was looking at Pete with an expression that must have betrayed my concern. Pete saw me look at him and flashed me a smile. With his thick eyebrows, Pete suddenly reminded me of Josh Hartnett: Josh with a crew cut. That smile, lighting up his square-jawed face -- his eyes as well as his lips -- it spoke volumes. Pete was grateful to me for responding to him at last. He was grateful too for my concern about him. But he wanted to reassure me that he, Peter Petrowski the champion swimmer, was strong enough to handle Karl Spivak. He was strong enough to fight in the lists as my champion, the champion of geeky but (gulp!!) attractive little Nicholas against the cruel bully!
As for me, did I want to be reassured in that way by Peter -- by handsome clean-cut Pete in that tight white singlet and those thigh-hugging denim cut-offs? Please don't ask me that question! Anyway, looking back at me -- responding to my dreamy admiring gaze -- turned out to be Pete's big mistake ...
'OOOF!' Pete had taken his eyes off Karl for too long. Karl's fist slammed into Pete's unprepared abs. Pete doubled up, clutching his stomach. Oh wow! Where was the tall upstanding Pete that I had been admiring just two seconds ago? This ungainly, hunched, figure ...! Pete retched, then his head drooped lower still. It was if he was bowing down to Karl, cooperating with him to present to a wide-open target for Karl's macho aggression. I saw the top of Pete's head, his smooth tanned shoulders, the neatly trimmed hair on his exposed neck ... Sure enough, it was Pete's neck that suffered next. Karl's right arm scythed the air in a broad downward arc. The karate chop landed with a thud that made me wince and look away. When I looked back, Pete was groveling in the floor in front of Karl, his forehead touching the mat. Saliva dribbled from Pete's mouth. Then he vomited. Karl loomed above him, a swaggering alpha male. 'Ready to submit, pretty boy?' he snarled.
Only a gurgling noise came from Pete, but he shook his head. Groggily he got to his feet again. When half upright, he lurched towards Karl, apparently hoping to take Karl by surprise, grabbing him around the waist so as to throw him. But instead Karl's knee jerk upwards sharply, slamming Pete in the jaw. Pete would have gotten a sudden unexpected view of the ceiling as his head snapped upward and back. He let go of Karl and sat down heavily on the mat. Karl grinned evilly. Pete peered up at him, rubbing the side of his face, a bemused frown on his face as if things were happening that he couldn't understand. Slowly Pete staggered to his feet again. Karl seemed to be taking a risk, letting Pete get fully upright. But he had judged his opponent expertly. With one hand Pete still clutched his tummy, and he no longer seemed to have any game plan. I guessed now what Karl would do next. Pete's jaw was already hurt. Karl blasted it with a savage upper cut.
'Ouch!' Karl squeezed his fist with the other hand, then shook it loose, trying to dissipate the pain. But Pete was in a worse plight. He was flat on his back, his legs contorted, writhing. Karl asked him 'You submit now?' But Pete didn't reply. His limbs went slack and slumped to the mat. His head was twisted to one side, away from me. He lay still.
I have to admit it, my heart went out to Pete then. It had been like seeing David Beckham in the ring against Mike Tyson. To resist Karl the street fighter was to have a brutal burden suddenly dumped on one's shoulders -- a burden that became heavier with every second. Pete had not been afraid to shoulder the burden. But Pete's graceful body, not overly muscular -- it was obvious in hindsight that under that burden he would sooner or later collapse. The collapse was quick and cruel! I suddenly remembered Karl's words to me on that first fateful day: '... otherwise you'll be leavin' the school in an ambulance.' So this was the sort of thing that the bully meant! I have to say it, though it hurts: I really hated Karl at that moment.
The victorious Karl looked around at the other three jocks, grinning. No words were necessary.
Robby spoke sourly. 'I guess we'll have our meal sooner than expected. There's a mop somewhere -- I'll clean up this mess. Nicky -- you can make yourself useful: help Pete over to the couch by the fridge and put some ice on his jaw, or something.'
I bent down beside Pete. His arms were spread out away from his body, elbows bent, palms upward, fingers loosely curled. His pecs -- the way they overlapped his impressive biceps -- the strands of hair in the armpit just beneath -- the expanse of smooth tanned flesh below, exposed by the big armhole of his singlet, the contours of his skin giving just a hint of the muscles over his ribs -- all so beautiful! A glorious teen athlete, reduced to such helplessness! There was a lump in my throat.
I put my arm under Pete's neck to try to lift him. But his head just lolled back, stretching the skin of his neck. With his Adam's apple prominent and his mouth gaping open, the swim team Adonis looked more vulnerable than ever. I readjusted my arm, putting my hand under his head, with the other hand under his shoulder. This was more successful. He groaned and his eyelids flickered. He made a feeble effort to support himself on his elbows. His eyes opened. He managed to focus them on me. I heard his croaky voice: 'Nicky! Oh, Nicky, I'm sorry ...'
It was just like my daydream about Pete, but in reverse. That thought made me warm to him all the more. My cock stiffened. I helped him stand up, then with my right arm round his waist and his left arm draped over my shoulders (almost like in the van!) I helped him towards the couch next to the fridge at the far end of the room. When I'd got him comfortable, putting a cushion under his head (Nicky as Florence Nightingale, Pete as the wounded soldier hero), I found some ice in the fridge and even a plastic bag, so as to make a cold compress for Nicky to hold against the ugly blue bruise on his cheek.
'How you doing, Pete? Anything I can get for you?'
'It's fine, Nicky, you've been great.' Pete smiled in gratitude -- another of those heart-melting smiles.
'Oh Pete, I'm sorry you're hurt ...'
'Don't be. That is -- I'd rather not be hurt, but I did it for you! For a long time I've ... I've wanted to get to know you better. And now at last we can talk!'
My head spun. 'Wow, gee, Pete, I ...'
Pete smiled at my embarrassment. He put his hand on my arm. 'Don't worry, I know it's difficult. Believe me, I know!' I wanted to ask him what it was that was difficult, exactly, but he carred on talking. 'And ... I just want to let you know I fully understand ... When you spoke up back there in the shed, supporting Karl against us. You're a smart guy, you know about Stockholm Syndrome and all that. Well, it's understandable that you're still under Karl's influence. He's terrorized you, I've watched it happening over these weeks. You identify with your captor, it's a natural psychological reaction after all you've been through, sort of for self-protection. But I want to let you know it's over now! You're free! Even if I couldn't do it by myself -- well, I'm just so glad I was able to get Robby and the others to help! To help you get away from that low-life thug!'
Whoops. There was something here that wasn't right. The words coming from Pete didn't quite square with the knight-in-shining-armor image I had built up around him. So this kidnapping and abduction was all Pete's idea?!
'Hey, hey, wait a moment. "After all I've been through" -- what do you know about what I've been through, as you put it? And Karl's not a low-life thug. Well, sure, he's no angel, but ... well, four of you ganging up on him, that's hadly fair ...'
'Sorry, Nicky, I'm not putting this right. It's just that seeing a nice guy like you -- a real nice guy -- under the influence of ...'
He broke off because of a commotion at the other end of the room, where the other four were eating sandwiches and drinking Coke. We heard Karl's voice, yelling: 'Fuck you, you bastards! You don't know nothing! You ...' The other three then joined in and there was a general hubbub that gradually subsided. Then there was a noise of chairs being moved as preparations were made for the next bout, between Karl and Steve -- floppy-haired thick-set footballer Steve Dawson.
Pete resumed. 'You heard that? He's a loudmouthed arrogant bully, by nature! He's got to be taught a lesson! Whereas you ... like I said, I'm so glad we can ... maybe get to know each other better now! Because I want it and ...' Pete put his hand on my shoulder, right close to my neck. '... And I think you'd like it too, huh? I think I can tell!' His right index finger lightly stroked my neck as he flashed me another of those trademark Petrowski smiles.
At the other end of the room I heard a grunt. Steve and Karl were wrestling. The grunt was from Karl. I could tell from the sound of it that things weren't going all Karl's way this time. In fact, Karl, my master Karl, was in difficulty ...
Suddenly it was if a kaleidoscope had been shaken and everything appeared from a different angle. Or as if scales had fallen from my eyes. Whatever metaphor you like. Anyway, I pulled away from Pete sharply. The feel of Pete's hand on my neck -- it had reminded me Karl's hand. Karl's comforting hand on my shoulder, after my little rebellion. Karl's hand ruffling my hair affectionately (yes! affectionately!) after I had paid homage to his marvelous cock. Both Karl's hands, firmly but gently guiding me as I licked him, tasted him, smelled him ... Even the hands of rough angry Karl, gripping my shoulders ... Oh, Karl, I'm sorry! (That's what I said in my head.) The comparison with Pete's furtive, tentative, timidly stroking finger -- it wasn't to Pete's advantage, let's put it like that.
'How d'you know what I think? If you liked me before, why didn't you talk to me and try to make friends with me? Were you frightened I'd rebuff you and beat you up? Huh! Probably that's just what you were frightened of! Just like when your friend Robby called me a faggot back there! It was Karl who stuck up for me, you didn't! You were frightened! Frightened of what people might say! And when you were worried about me being -- what -- under Karl's evil spell, did you talk to me about it? Did you confront Karl? No, because you were scared! Scared that Karl would beat the shit out of you! So you ganged up with Robby and the others! But that didn't save you, did it? Because your so-called friends despise you as much as I do! You got wasted anyway! And you fucking deserve it, you coward!'
Pete was turning bright pink. I could see him glancing down the room, worried that the others might hear my outburst.
'Hey, Nicky, that's unfair, that's all wrong, I ...'
'I don't want to hear another fucking word from you, Petrowski!'
And I turned and left him. I wanted to watch my master, brave strong Karl, in this second, much harder, fight against Steve ...