Sam is 23. Charles, his stepfather, is 47. An incredibly fit 47. Charles has built an elaborate fitness studio as an annex to their house. Charles works out daily. Charles is a professional stuntman. He had been a gymnast and fencer in college. He teaches self-defense at night. Charles has a black belt in savate, the French art of foot fighting. If need be, he could disable another man with a single kick. (Wicked wicked Charles!)
Sam is unathletic. Sam is a physical and financial sponge. Charles has had it with Sam's college-tuition expenses and undeclared major. He is about to lay down the law. They are in the fitness studio. Charles is working the heavy bag with his feet. Whup! Whup! His kicks fly, hard and loud. He is drenched in sweat. Sam watches, more than a bit scared. Charles is 6-foot-3, with a virtually hairless torso and legs. His abdominal six-pack is breath-taking. Charles's callus-gnarled feet look like tree-roots. Scary, not pretty. His long thighs and calves, though, are as elegant as a race-horse's. Charles is extremely flexible. He can still do that ballerina thing of touching one's own ear with one's foot. As Sam well knew. He had seen it.
"Sam, the gravy train stops today. You need to get a job."
"Screw that! I'm working on my degree!"
"In what, Creative Procrastination?"
"We'll see what Mom has to say about this."
"Running under Mommy's skirt again? At your age?"
"Go to hell. You don't run my life."
"Neither do you. And watch that mouth. Unless you want a foot in it."
"You wouldn't dare, Mr. Macho!"
"I wouldn't? Who's going to stop me? You, sissy-boy?"
"I'll have you up on charges."
"Can't fight your own fights,eh? C'mon. I'll teach you how to take a punch. Better late than never..."
Charles jabs the air. Sam jumps back. Charles's grin spreads.
"I knew you were a punk. Okay, no gloves. And no hands. Now take a shot."
Charles tosses his gloves off. He dances. He roundhouse-kicks the heavy bag. It swings and twirls. Sam gulps.
"C'mon, punk. I won't use my hands. I promise."
Sam throws a hilarious punch. Charles pirouettes, and the blade of his heavily-muscled calf connects with Sam's soft belly. Sam gasps. Charles executes a jumping-front-kick, which, with a snapping motion, presses the sole against the antagonist 's sternum, sending Sam tumbling backward, and to the floor.
"Don't get up!"
Stupidly, Sam stands. Charles demonstrates a side-kick into that ever-vulnerable belly. He looks coquettishly over his shoulder, aims, and shoots a back-kick into Sam's crotch.
"Auughhhhhh!!!"
"Sorry. I was aiming for your knee-cap. My back-kick needs some work. Let me try again."
"NOOO!!!"
"Tell me no, and it's just gonna get worse. Regardless, you'll have some bruises in the morning. We could stop now, and...'relax the tension'...if you know what I mean."
Sam knew what he meant. Charles was glistening, and aromatic, with sweat. The only item of clothing Charles wore, a purple Lycra thong, was dark with moisture, and strained with turgidity. A black splotch of pubic-fur showed through. The shoestring of the thong clung between the perfect hemispheres of Charles's muscular rump. Sam did not know how latently gay he was until just that moment: when Charles had turned and lifted his leg for that back-kick. Dave watched that exquisite bun flex. The impending violence of the kick seemed a small price to pay, if he could watch those stupendously baroque gluteus muscles flexing, flexing...in slow-motion...in stop-motion...forever and ever...
[TO BE CONTINUED]