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, 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 part 7, Nicky described what happened after the kidnap, and how Karl defeated Pete Petrowski.
Now Karl gives his version of the aftermath of the kidnap, covering the same ground as Nick did last time.
It was always on the cards: a confrontation between me and the jocks. They resented the fact that I refused to join the school's lousy football team. But I can just hear the coach's words if I had become a football star: 'Karl Spivak, he's from a dreadful disadvantaged background, but he's become one of Fairfield High's success stories. Such a fine polite young man now.' Yuck! Being a fine polite young man means accepting how things work in this country: rich folks with nice houses and nice jobs get what they want, while other folks get screwed. Well, I belong to those other folks.
So the day had come. All four of them. That would have been bad enough. But little Nicky too --!
My head was in mess. The possibility that Nicky liked me had given me a real jolt. Because I hadn't done anything to make him like me, had I? I was his master, he was my slave. You see, I knew from experience that if a person likes me, then I tend to like them back. And that way lies disaster. You like a person -- you (... ah ... yeah, OK, I'll say it) ... you love a person -- someone real close to you -- or so you think. Someone you ought to be able to depend on. So you trust that person. Then that trust is betrayed. It's like a knife in the guts. As if life wasn't hard enough! I'd been there, folks, believe me, I'd been there. And I sure didn't want to go there again.
So my strategy now was to make people respect me, certainly, but like me -- hell, no! For Karl Spivak to survive, he needed to be hard and cold. Supercool tough Karl. Yet here was little Nicky going all warm and soft on me (wasn't he?). And worse. There was something in me that responded to him -- that was grateful to him. I felt something inside me going warm and soft too. Just when I had to face those jocks. With Nick watching. On my side? I would be all distracted by Nicky's concern. Or - - I remembered what Robby had said in the storage shed -- on their side? Oh no, not this time too ... oh Nicky, please, no ...!
Fucking hell. C'mon, Karl, get a grip. Put that insignificant nerd Nicky out of your mind. Don't look at him. Don't think about him. Keep cool. Keep supercool.
It nearly worked. All the way to Robby's place the whole journey to I managed to ignore Nick until right at the end, when we were walking up Robby's driveway. I couldn't resist looking round to see how Nicky was handling the situation. From his face I couldn't really tell. All I noticed was that he was walking real close alongside Peter Petrowski.
I didn't think twice about that, not straight away. But when we were downstairs in that basement, and Pete turned out to be the first one I was up against -- it was then that I saw the look that Nick gave him, and the smile on Pete's face, gazing back at Nick. It was like little Nicky had planted the knife in my guts. Well, I'd learned from bitter experience. I hardened myself. I fought back. I couldn't punish Nick, not there and then. But what the hell -- Petrowski would pay the penalty for both of them. In less than half a minute, pretty boy Pete was gone, flattened, blasted off the face of the earth.
Nick had planted the knife. It remained for Robby to twist it. He, Brad, Steve and me were eating subway sandwiches while the injured Pete was being tended to at the other end of the room -- by Nicky. Nicky and Pete were deep in conversation, I could see, but I couldn't hear what they were saying.
'Doesn't seem like Nicky's on your side after all,' said Robby. 'Well, hardly surprising. If Nicky likes guys (y'know what I mean?), why wouldn't he prefer a cute guy like Pete to someone with your ugly mug?'
'Shut up, damn you!'
Now Steve Dawson took over. 'Come to think of it, Karl -- who're you really jealous of? Is it Nicky or is it Pete? Perhaps you always lusted after Pete but you couldn't have him, so you made little Nicky your slave instead. Just the sort of twisted idea that a closet queer might come up with. Kinda poetic justice, if Nicky hits if off with Pete -- which is what it looks like!'
That's when I yelled out: 'Fuck off, you bastards! You don't know nothing!' I was ready to fight them all at once, there and then. But Brad cooled things. I can't remember how, but somehow he got be calmed down. I was still livid at Steve, though, itching to get my hands on the bastard, after what he had just said. 'Closet queer' -- NO! Yet ... if I had this soft feeling about Nicky, and if Nicky 'liked guys', what did that say about me -- about king-of-the-'hood Spivak?
Like I said, my head was in a mess. It wasn't just my body that was being put to the test that evening. My emotional stamina was under attack from two directions: from Nicky and Pete, and now from Robby and Steve. ('Emotional stamina'? Such big words. That comes from hanging around with Nick.) The only way I could fight back was physically, like I had against Pete. I was really glad that Steve was next up. I would murder the creep ...
Steve Dawson was a tougher proposition than Pete Petrowski. He was a little shorter than me but more stockily built, and he carried at least as much muscle. Plus he had no fat on him. Those jocks kept in training, and he was more fit than I was. So my best plan was to avoid getting in close at first. Instead, I would attack him from a distance with street-fighting moves. He didn't have my experience, wouldn't know how to respond, he would get rattled as well as hurt, I would wear him down. Then, when he was weakened enough, I could go in closer, I would pound his guts, twist his arms out of their sockets, have him screaming for mercy ...
Things started badly, however. Having fought Pete, I was already stripped down to my briefs. I was waiting, circling my shoulders and stiffening and relaxing my abs in preparation, while Steve took off his cargo pants. Then he removed his polo shirt. His head and right arm were free, and he was slipping the shirt down off his left shoulder ...
His right fist landed in my belly while his polo shirt was still on his left arm. Ooof! The pain was considerable. No question, football player Steve had strong arm muscles. But, because he was concentrating on taking me by surprise, he didn't manage to put his full body weight behind the blow. Also, as good luck would have it, just as the punch landed, my abs were stiff. So immediately ... POW! My foot landed in Steve's abs. Quite a lot of air left Steve's lungs rather suddenly. My long- range attack plan was going into effect.
In reaction to my kick, Steve bent forward but did not crumple up as Pete would have done. However ... WHAM! The other foot, the same target. Steve sagged lower, glowering at me and cursing. Yay! I was hurting him! Now for a kick to his shin, to send him off balance. Yes! He lurched forward and landed on all fours. Whoopee! I jumped so that my left foot came down heavily between his shoulder blades, slamming his chest and his face to the floor. Most of my weight was now bearing down on Steve's back, but my right foot still rested lightly on the mat for balance. Steve was pinned to the floor, pretty much helpless.
I looked up to see how Robby and Brad were enjoying the show -- and caught sight of Nick. Oh fuck, I didn't want to be reminded of that little traitor. But ... he was no longer talking to Pete on that distant couch. Instead he was hunkered down close to the mat, watching the action. And he was grinning at me from ear to ear, punching the air with his fist! What ...?
Suddenly my ankle -- my right ankle -- Steve has got his right hand around it -- he's trying to jerk me off balance! I transfer my weight to to my right leg for better stability. But oh no -- now he's twisting out from under -- now he's got hold of my right ankle with both hands!
Quick. A heavy knee drop onto his abs, or at least on to his side, to knock the wind out of him and regain my momentum. Shit, it hasn't worked, he's twisted away. Ouch, I've hurt my own right knee instead, and now I'm flailing around on the mat, partly on my back, partly on my left side. Steve is trying to stand up, still holding on to my right ankle. He's leering down at me, the bastard, he thinks he's in control now. Gotta use my left leg to attack him, that's the only weapon I've got in this position ... WHAM! Left heel hard into his groin ...
Oh no, it wasn't his groin after all, he'd got out of the way, my foot just brushed the outside of his thigh. He's lifting my right ankle high now, to the level of his waist. My left leg is useless, it's easy for him to keep out of range of it. Oh-oh, I see what he's going to do now ... he's twisting hard with both hands ... owww, my knee will be dislocated ... it's no good, I've got to flip over on to my front ... fuck, fuck, fuck, he's still got my ankle, I'm still powerless, and now I can't see what the bastard is doing!
AAAAH! He's let go my ankle and landed with both knees heavily in the small of my back. I try to push myself up with my arms and squirm out from under but ... too late, he's sitting astride my back now, facing forward, his knees up near my shoulders. Fuck, he weighs a ton. He grabs my left arm and tucks it between his leg and his side, squeezing it. Then he clasps his big mitts under my chin and pulls my head upward. Oh wow, he's going for that corny pro-wrestling hold, a camel clutch! Urggh, my neck and chest and abs are being stretched, it's real uncomfortable. But everyone knows that those holds only work because they're choreographed, the two wrestlers cooperate. And my right arm is free anyway, so I'll just get my left arm free as well ...
Easier said than done. He's squeezing my arm real tight, it's in this awkward position behind me, I can't get any purchase, I can hardly move my left shoulder at all ...
So what about my right arm? I can grab his wrist and pull. But it's one arm of mine against both of his, I'm not strong enough ...
OK, I can reach behind me, punch his head, grab his ear, pull it ...
AAAAAAH! The stretching and twisting of my neck and my torso suddenly gets much much more painful. It feels like he's gonna twist my head off. I hear his voice in my ear: 'Cut that shit NOW, Spivak, y'hear?' And he gives my neck another agonizing tug.
I cut the shit, as instructed. I let my right arm go loose. I close my eyes. I'm beaten.
NO! Can't admit that yet. Got to get my brain into gear, think of some game plan. Because ... there's that picture of in my mind of little Nicholas just a short while ago, all happy, punching the air when he thought I was winning. He's on my side after all! Can't disappoint the little guy ... can't be shamed in front of my slave ... No, no, not my slave, that's all a stupid game, what I mean is I can't disappoint this guy who's my f- ... my fr- ... (oh hell!) ... this guy who looks up to me and seems to like me ...
Oh, c'mon, Karl, that's crap. Get real. No one's on your side but yourself. And that's the way you've always wanted it. Just because you've lost to Steve, no reason to let your brain turn to mush.
'You submit yet?'
I find myself shaking my head. Makes no sense. But something in me ... Anyway, I refuse to submit.
'Good! 'Cos I don't want to finish with you so soon. I got more holds to demonstrate. Like this one ...'
Suddenly Steve lets go of me and stands up. I slump forward, on hands and knees. A sorry picture I must present! Tough street-fighter Karl, huh? Panting, sweat dripping off me, hair stuck to my forehead, head drooping, staring at the floor ... While standing behind me, I know, is star footballer Steve, muscular and ruthless, grinning down as he plans new ways to humiliate me.
However ... gotta go on fighting ... can't let -- can't let Nicky down ... (Fuck! Why can't I get that guy out of my mind?) I begin to stagger upright and turn round to face Steve ...
Too slow. He's darted behind me. I fell his arms come up under my arms, then his hands join at the back of my neck. A full nelson! I'm trapped again. I'm standing, but my arms are sticking out at right angles, my forearms dangling helpless from my elbows.
Steve turns me this way and that, displaying me to the spectators. Robby, lounging with legs apart, his hands clasped behind his head, is relishing every moment of the show that Steve is putting on. Brad, elbows on knees, is looking strangely solemn. Nick is sitting hunched, leaning forward, his hands covering his face. His shoulders are shaking. And Pete -- what's Pete doing? He's not on the couch any more, he's sitting not far from Nick, behind him and to one side. Nick doesn't seem to know he's there. But Pete is looking at Nick, not me. He stretches a hand out towards Nick as if to pat him, to console him ...
NO! It's ME that Nick likes, not you! You filthy bastard, Pete, you're goodlooking, you're rich, you've got everything! Yet you still want to take this from me -- you want to take Nicky from me! Well, I'm not gonna fucking let you! I can't punish you again just now, but I can sure as hell punish your friend Steve!
The new game plan comes to me in a flash. We are near the edge of the mat, close to one wall of the big basement room -- a solid concrete block wall. I plant my feet firmly and push back hard. Steve isn't expecting it. He lurches into the wall. But it's only a gentle collision, and he steadies himself easily.
Shit, it hasn't worked. But it's the only plan I've got. I try again. This time I hear a sharp crack. 'Aahhh ...!' from Steve. His grip loosens slightly. It was his right elbow hitting the solid concrete.
A gleam of hope. I spur myself on. Desperately, I use my legs to throw myself and Steve back at the wall again -- and again -- and again -- and again. His elbow is hurt, he is losing concentration. He fights to keep his hold on me, but his hands are slipping. For a second time his elbow smacks into the wall. 'AAGH!' He lets go of me.
We are both moving pretty slowly by now, but he is slower than I am. I turn round and land a punch just above his navel while he still has his back to the wall. All my weight is behind that punch. Whoooh! Steve's face creases up and he slithers down the wall, his legs folding under him neatly. But I don't want him on his back, I want him face down. I grab his shoulder and yank him forward. Then it's me on his back this time. I grab his left wrist and twist his arm up -- high up, up as far as his neck. It's not just his elbow that's hurting now. His yelps of pain turn into a high-pitched shriek.
OK, I want to punish the guy, but I don't want to maim him for life. I whisper into his ear: 'Just say it.'
'I submit, I submit, please, for Chrissake, Karl, stop!'
I let him go. He sits on the mat, rocking to and fro, clutching his arm. Robby bends down beside him.
Nicky -- what about Nicky? Suddenly that's all that seems to matter: what's Nicky's reaction?
I see him. He's pleased. Yes, I think one can safely say that the little guy is pleased with the outcome of Spivak versus Dawson. And Pete is nowhere to be seen. But ...
Now big Brad looms in front of me. 'You're doing good, Karl. The score is two to nothing, the Spivak team winning. You'll want a couple of minutes rest. Then I guess it's up to me to restore some honor to the Fairfield High School team!'
Oh man ...
Nicky marches up to Brad, white-faced, trembling. He opens his mouth to speak. But Brad simply looks at him, unperturbed, unmoved. Slowly Nick backs away, then sits down, his head in his hands, staring numbly at the floor.
I don't know if I'd hoped for some reprieve. I guess I must have. Because now, with that hope gone ... Every muscle in my body seemed to be begging for rest. Instead, there was still Brad to handle. Then Robby ...
I drank some water that Brad gave me. Then, three minutes later, here was weary Karl, the slacker from the wrong side of town, face to face with fresh and fit Mr Muscles van der Velden, the only unbeaten wrestler on our local high school circuit. Oh Nicky, I know why you don't want to watch....