Sweat

Warning: Contains unsavoury aspects of male-to-male relationships.

This is episode 4 and does not, unfortunately, contain any sex - just implausible story progression and a tough athletics coach.

Episodes 1-3 were posted to ASSGM and the Nifty site.

Primary themes of episode 4 are; 'authoritarianism' and 'athletics'. Minor themes are; 'underwear' , 'cross-generational', and 'spank'.

thobyj@yahoo.co.uk

"SWEAT! (4)"

And so, presently, Marmaduke and Eric departed the city on a long road-trip to a summery, fantasy-land awaiting them. They conveniently left behind material obligations. Marmaduke had easily quit his job on the construction sites (but had kept his construction boots) and loaded his bike into the back of Eric's car. They drove north, leaving behind Marmaduke's appointment with a magistrate - an element not overlooked, gentle reader, merely held-over as a useful plot- device for a future adventure.

Mundane details were dealt with. The long trip was made. Petrol was sought, and, as with Sir Gawain and the details of his journey to Bertilak's castle;

"It would be too tedious to tell a tenth of them."

Let us make haste, instead, to meet Frank Wrath (see "Sweat! (3)"), who, for the benefit of those readers with a bent for such things, will be giving young Marmaduke's life some direction with a firm dose of athletic training.

On arrival, a nice little beach house was rented, where Eric could tend the garden and contemplate the isolated stretch of beach. Marmaduke unpacked his gear and found space for his collection of lycra and spandex. He padded backwards and forwards, from car to bedroom, in an old pair of holed jeans (yes, jeans are out of fashion, but cargo-pants have not had time to embed themselves into the psyche. Youth can swap fashion more easily than the lovers of youth. Besides, denim clings when wet) and a slightly too-small T-shirt that was purple and threadbare, soft from many washings, seams beginning to part. Eric watched, admiring the abject perfectness of the adorable kid. The lovely, sinewy, brown arms. The long, bare neck and boyish, moptop hair, and the glimpses of bare skin at the narrow midriff, between jeans and T-shirt.

They cooked and ate dinner. Eric was amazed anew at Marmaduke's appetite. The next day, they met Marmaduke's new coach, Frank Wrath.

They were both in for a series of surprises. "Of course, you know of his reputation as a . . . disciplinarian," said Eric during the drive over to Frank's house. Marmaduke, wearing once again his jeans and charming little purple T-shirt, said; "I know what he's supposed to be like, Eric. Look, I'm ready for any crap he can dish out."

"Are you sure? We didn't drive all the way up here - get a house and everything - all so you can pike-out."

"I won't pike-out, Eric!"

Frank's house also overlooked the beach. Surprise number #1: Frank Wrath's residence - in this small, gay enclave of a community - was a neat little weatherboard doll's-house. It looked as though a granny lived there, or perhaps an old, retired sea-salt.

Marmaduke got out of the car and sniffed the sea air. He could hear the waves crashing and felt the sandy, salty mist wafting across from the beach. The air was sharper, and colder than in the city. For the first time since arriving, he felt the fog in his head lift. A stifling, jadedness departed and he realised he should have come somewhere like this earlier. But, he was thankful Eric was with him and as he breathed deeply from the wet, misty air, Marmaduke silently promised himself that he would persevere with whatever efforts Eric, and this Frank Wrath - and his new life - would require of him.

Surprise number #2: Frank Wrath seemed like a nice guy. At least, compared to what Marmaduke had heard. They shook hands.

"So," said Wrath, standing in his small, neat living-room. "The young lad who's going to become a triathlon star and win us all some cash!"

Marmaduke shifted uneasily and stared down at his feet.

"How old are you, lad?" asked Frank Wrath.

"Seventeen."

"Seventeen. Good. A good pair of legs, I hope, for cycling and running. And a good set of shoulders for swimming."

Despite all this friendliness, Frank Wrath displayed outwardly a slightly differing image. Marmaduke knew it well enough; leather and denim and the smell of cigars. There was a well-worn, black jacket and a hefty, studded, leather belt on the man. A weathered cowboy hat shaded an equally weathered face. At least it wasn't a black peaked hat, of the type favoured by SS officers and ageing fetish-queens. Wrath looked about forty or forty-five.

"And your name's Marmaduke."

"Yes."

"Well, Marmaduke, we'll have you trained-up like a prize greyhound. If you're good enough, that is."

"Oh, I'm good enough."

"That's good, lad. Now, let me ask you something . . ."

Wrath placed a firm hand behind the boy's neck and felt the jutting shoulder- blades. Marmaduke was slowly guided to the window where the vista of deserted beach opened up before them. There were small ornaments on the window-sill.

"That beach out there, is where you'll be whipped into shape. As quickly as possible. And it'll be hard work - running - swimming - cycling. No surfing, no skateboarding, no video-games, no fun - just me and you and our single goal of bringing you up to standard. Understand?"

"Yes . . ., I understand," said Marmaduke. The hand was still on the back of his neck. Frank continued.

"I don't take any shit. There'll be no complaints. You'll do as I say. If I'm not satisfied with any aspect of the standard of your performance, you will work to make me satisfied."

"Okay," Marmaduke gulped.

"I'm telling you this so you know beforehand, what you're getting into."

"Yeah. Okay," said Marmaduke.

"Now, what I want to ask you is - and think carefully, son - is; are you ready for it? . . . Can you stomach it?"

"Yeah, I can take it," said Marmaduke with admirable bravado.

Frank leant in close to Marmaduke's ear and whispered, so that Eric couldn't hear: "We'll see, you pretty little faggot!"

Marmaduke shivered, and felt Frank's strong hand squeeze the back of his neck.

"What sort of condition are you in?" Frank said, returning to nice-guy mode.

"Pretty good," Marmaduke replied.

Eric interjected from behind. "I think he's in really great shape, Frank. At least, he seems to be when he's . . . erm . . . swimming in my pool."

Frank gently guided the boy away from the window.

"Okay. That's good," he said. "Strip down."

Surprise number #3: If Frank Wrath had seemed, however briefly, like a nice guy, he probably wasn't going to stay that way, which shouldn't have been a surprise, really. But both Marmaduke and Eric had been lulled.

Marmaduke paused, wondering momentarily whether Frank actually wanted him stripped. Then he slid off his T-shirt revealing the hairless, lynx-like torso that always made Eric a little bit mad with jealousy. This time he was to be jealous of Frank. Next came the shoes, kicked off petulantly. Then the jeans slid easily, with a 'wiff' sound, from the narrow, lean body.

"You can leave your jocks on."

Well, that was something. Still, he felt funny standing in Frank's living-room in nothing but his small, white cotton briefs. They were a g-string, actually.

"Get on the beach."

Marmaduke realised what was going on. He was being taken for a test run. Oh well. He knew that this was never going to be a picnic.

"When I tell you to get somewhere, you run, lad. Now, run! And wait for us on the beach."

Marmaduke ran. Outside, a cold wind came off the sea. His nipples hardened and his bare skin came alive. Sand crunched underfoot, pleasantly massaging his soles. It was cold and he shivered, yet something glowed inside of him - something that had begun to burn hotly in his belly when Frank had grasped him, and steered him quite firmly. Frank had told him . . . ordered him . . . to strip. Like that time in the police-station - except this time there were no rules to protect him and there was no way of knowing how far it would all go.

He looked down, checking himself out. His hand traced the delicately rippled cut between his pecs, and slid down across the six-pack of his sucked-in belly. The tight, little briefs held his cock to one side and he cradled his maleness - his cold-hardened balls and thick, coiled meat-snake - with his hand. The wind blew sand-grit against his skin and into his mouth.

Frank and Eric followed, rubbing their hands together in the cold wind.

"Up to that far point. Around the post on the end, and back," Frank yelled. "As quick as you can, lad. Show me how fast you are."

Eric watched the near-naked boy take-off, sprinting like a gazelle to get warm. The two, neatly-muscled little buttocks tensing alternately with each running stride. The cotton g-string disappeared between them, as if sucked. Eric hoped Marmaduke could somehow stay warm.

"He's a pretty one, Eric," said Frank.

"I didn't think you cared," Eric laughed.

"No, I don't. But is he going to be tough enough?"

"I don't know, Frank. What are you going to do to him?"

"Oh, nothing a real man shouldn't be able to handle. And that's what I'll be doing. Making a man of him. Undoubtedly, that'll be what he needs after a soft life with you."

Eric chuckled and watched wistfully as Marmaduke receded swiftly up the beach. He hoped Frank wouldn't be too tough - and that neither Marmaduke nor himself had underestimated the fierceness of the boy's new trainer.

Shortly, Marmaduke was back, having rounded the distant post as instructed. He was puffing as he jogged towards them, his eyes expectant - wondering what was next.

"Now, swim," yelled Frank before Marmaduke had stopped. "Out around the buoy and back here. Move it!"

Marmaduke sped down towards the surf, his feet leaving temporary, dry prints in the hard wet sand. He plunged in. Eric shivered. The boy freestyled easily through the surging foam, his bare backside appearing briefly just before he dipped under each wave.

"Did he bring a bike with him?" Frank asked Eric.

"Oh, yes."

"It's at your house, is it?"

"Yes."

"What sort is it?"

"Uh . . . I've no idea, Frank. You'll have to ask Marmaduke."

At that moment, Marmaduke was emerging from the water. He flicked his head, spraying droplets from his hair and padded nimbly across the sand towards Eric and Frank, rather pleased with himself. His brown skin - covered in sparkling water-pearls - rippled, cold, alive, aglow. The small, cotton briefs had almost disappeared in a wet sheen of transparency, making his cock all too apparent as a thick, pink, folded sausage.

"Do it again!" Frank bellowed, startling both Marmaduke and Eric. "Around the post. Back here. Around the buoy. Come on! Hurry up!"

Eric and Marmaduke's eyes met momentarily. The boy's look was dark through his shaggy, wet fringe. Then he was off again, pelting up the beach to the post on the point. For Eric, it was time to go back to his own, rented house. "Don't wait for him," Frank said. "I'll send him home when I've finished with him."

"Oh, by the way," Frank continued. "I'll give you a list of his dietary needs. He's got to eat properly so don't let him eat McDonalds or any other garbage. Also, don't drive him any where. Anywhere he needs to go, he can run to. I don't want to see him in town frigging around with other boys . . . or girls. He's got no time for that.

"When I send him home to you, I expect he'll sleep. I'll make him tired enough so that you can screw him without waking him up. That'll be easier than listening to his pretty mouth yammering on."

"Jesus, Frank!" Eric laughed nervously. "I was hoping to occupy his mouth in my own way."

Eric drove back to his house. He snooped in Marmaduke's room and found a treasure-trove that sent him breathless. Brief briefs that were crusty and yellowed, and smelt of stale sweat and musk. Nylon Speedos, their soft, cool texture sending electric tingles into his skin. Short running-shorts which he'd seen Marmaduke in previously (and they were short). Also, those tight lycra shorts, which should be underwear but which Marmaduke wore in public (and which only someone with Marmaduke's backside, waist and thighs could get away with wearing). Eric masturbated into a pair of Marmaduke's Speedos and then popped them into the washing-machine. From the living room, the lovely view of the beach included a distant Marmaduke making his way, hurriedly, to the post on the rocky point for the third time.

Marmaduke, meanwhile, concentrated on regulating his breathing. It was impossible to pace himself when he had no idea how many times he'd be sent on this post/buoy circuit. He kept to the hard, wet sand, it was easier to run on. His legs pumped and he found stride, running fleetly. Luckily, the beach was all but deserted, as the tiny g-string was a slight embarrassment. There were a couple of people here and there, but they were a fair distance off. Anyway, this was supposed to be a notorious, gay haunt and pick-up area. No doubt there were a few drooling perverts in the scraggly bushes on the sand dunes.

There was something else to all this; Marmaduke puffed the fresh, cold air, filling his chest, and relished . . . nay . . . almost melted in exquisite relief at the feeling of being subordinated, for once. He was free to do just as he was told. By Frank. He had in fact, he thought, fallen in love with Frank instantly - in a certain kind of way. Or maybe with the way Frank made him jump in surprise when he barked an order. Marmaduke was determined to be 'tough enough'. It was corny, but he felt completely ready to be subjected to Frank's training, and he was happy.

"Your sugar-daddy's gone home, lad. It's just you and me now. So you can get over here and get ready to learn a few things," Frank said as the boy approached after his third, tiring circuit.

"First: Stand there. Now get your feet apart. Wider. Wider, I said. Now stand up straight. Hands behind your head. Behind your head. Clasp your fingers. Get your chin up. Stand up straight. Elbows back. Back. Back. Back. Pull your belly in. Suck it in, lad.

"Now, stay there. Don't move. Get your fucking elbows back!

"Right. That is called 'Position'. Remember how you are now, and when I say 'Position', that's how I want you. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Right. That's the second thing. I'm Sir, and you will address me as such. Not all the time. You'll know when. When you're in Position, for example.

"Third: When you're calling me Sir, when you're in Position, when you're under discipline; you will speak only when spoken to. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Listen up, lad, because I'm only saying these things once. You're under my discipline now. Do you know what that means?"

". . . Not really, Sir."

"It means you'll do as you're told - exactly as you're told, instantly. This is a lot different to the life you're used to. And you'll learn quickly. Reciprocally, I'll train you - firmly and fairly - in discipline and obedience, as well as athletics. You will need them all to win triathlons. Is this sinking in?"

"Yes, it is, Sir."

"Don't say 'yes it is', or 'not really'. Say 'yes, Sir!'"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Stand up straight, damn it!"

Marmaduke flinched and his played body stiffened. He forced his elbows back and curled his toes into the sand.

"Good. Now . . . it's not always 'Sir' and Position. We need to get along. We'll be friends. It's just that I must maintain control if you're to be trained properly. I know you'll make mistakes. You'll regret them and won't make them again.

"There's more, but you'll learn everything in time. See that shed near the house?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Get in there and wait for me. In Position."

Marmaduke dashed off. Up the steep, sand embankment, across a stretch of coarse grass and through the door of the musty, wooden shed. It was slightly gloomy, compared to the bright day outside. It smelt of hay, dust, . . . leather, and . . . a horse snuffled. It was a fine looking animal, not that Marmaduke knew anything about horses.

"Meet Kiara," said Frank, entering the shed. "She's a fine horse etc. etc. etc. and you'll become somewhat acquainted with her during the equestrian aspects of your training."

Marmaduke was slightly confused. He stood diligently in Position, his feet planted firmly and wide on the compacted, earthen floor, hands clasped behind his head, his elbows forced back.

Frank gestured expansively at an array of saddles and other paraphernalia hanging over the high fences enclosing the horse's stall. "I'm afraid you'll be spending a lot of time caring for all this leather. The sea air does it no good at all."

Frank gave a friendly smile. "Also, my lad, I hope you enjoy shovelling manure. There's plenty of work around here for a stout, younker like yourself!

Marmaduke felt acutely a total contrast between the beach, the sand, the bright, barefoot athleticism of his triathlon training - and this dark world of oil-soaked leather and 'equestrian' mysteries. A light film of dust was beginning to coat his wet skin.

"Have you ever used a surf-ski?" Frank asked.

"No, Sir . . . I mean, yes, Sir . . . I used one once when I . . ."

"All right, all right. You'll be using one here. It's good for the upper body. Go and get it out from under my house - this side of the carport."

Marmaduke was out of the shed in the blinking of an eye. Minutes later he returned, awkwardly bearing the eight-foot, fibreglass ski. It wouldn't fit through the door easily, of course, but Frank was emerging from the dark anyway, mounted on Kiara.

"Put it across your shoulders, longways," he yelled from the frisky horse. "Grab onto the straps in the footwells and the handles at the other end."

Marmaduke stood with the heavy surf-ski across his back like a crucifix. He shifted it on his shoulders, getting the long, man-powered aquatic vehicle comfortable.

"Run, boy!" barked Frank, gesturing like a victorious knight on his mount. Marmaduke ran - as best he could. He thudded onto the dry sand breathing hard, Kiara and Frank following. He could hear the hooves and the loud, sputtering horse breath.

This was not really what Marmaduke had expected when he first undertook to be coached by Frank Wrath; to be driven like a cross between a racehorse and a pack-mule - with a real, full-sized horse bearing down behind him. They made their way along the beach in the opposite direction to the point, Kiara lolloping easily, Frank shouting encouragement to the loaded, running trainee.

Marmaduke laboured steadily for purchase in the soft sand. His breath burnt in his chest and he was no longer concerned by the cold. Sweat stuck his splayed fringe to his eyes and trickled down his neck. The weight across his shoulders - the chunky surf-ski - quickly became a horrible load, bearing down, dragging him backwards.

"Keep moving, boy. You'll be carrying that thing a few more miles before you're ready for a triathlon!" Marmaduke's tormentor yelled. Just maybe, Marmaduke was not really in love with this guy anymore.

They continued. The ski had to be constantly balanced. Marmaduke's arms ached terribly. He consciously steadied his breathing and focused on the passing ripples of sand two metres in front. Veins stood out on his arms and legs and athletic body of the youth tautened all over with effort.

"Keep it moving, boy! Keep up the pace or you'll get a boot in the backside! Don't let me tell you again!"

Marmaduke had no breath spare for a reply. He screwed his face in pain and picked up the pace. Kiara's hooves thudded behind him and to his left. He could still hear the horse's breathing, forcing him on faster, faster. His outstretched arms felt like they would never let go of the thing on his back and be normal limbs again. He knew it was better to run on the hard, wet sand near the water's edge, but Frank had him running in the dry, soft stuff that made squeaking noises as his feet landed.

Frank kept the pace inhumanely brisk. Head bent forward by the ski on his back, Marmaduke's view was limited so that he could only hear the crashing and hissing of the cool, wet sea.

They left the beach and hit the dunes. The sand stuck to Marmaduke's sweat as he pounded upwards, stumbling, slipping, and rolling/falling down one side, and then up the other side of the next dune. He became covered in white, sweat-stuck sand - arms unable to stop falls, occupied as they were holding the wretchedly heavy and awkward ski. He fell and copped a mouthful of sand but was not allowed to stop.

They were on the hilltop flat of the peninsula at the other end of the beach, the long grass brushing the sand from Marmaduke's legs. There was a little wind up here on the exposed end of the point. The sweat dried. A free hand would have snatched at the g-string in his rear crack, but he had no such free hand and the sandy, gritty, elasticised cord continued to chafe and irritate his anus.

The area was isolated bushland. The horse, rider, and running, laden boy made their way painfully across a scraggly-grassed wasteland towards a densely foliated swamp. Marmaduke felt trees brushing at his surf-ski and wet mud between his toes. The air was suddenly cooler and Frank called him to a stop in a shaded area near the edge of the bayou. Marmaduke panted heavily and Kiara sniffled and snorted, moving around.

"Hang onto that ski, lad. We're not finished yet. I just need to mention a few things," said Frank, dismounting.

Marmaduke tried to stand still but his bare feet slipped unsteadily in a patch of mud. The ski on his back waved from side to side and he placed the point on the ground to steady himself. His puffing was subsiding.

"Stand up, boy!"

Marmaduke groaned inwardly, unwilling to vocalise objections.

"This swamp, Marmaduke. . ."

"Yes, Sir."

"Don't fucking 'Yes, Sir,' me in the middle of a sentence, boy!"

Marmaduke gulped. ". . . Sorry, Sir."

"This swampland is where you'll be training when I decide you need some attitudinal adjustment or extra anaerobic tempo. It's an unpleasant place to train, that's partly the reason I use it sometimes. An important part of your curriculum here will be development of your internal fortitude, endurance, and discipline.

"I'm not talking about punishment. There will be punishment - I make no bones about that - but this swamp and this surf-ski on your back is for you to imbibe the correct perspective. It's only natural that you have to be hardened - mentally and physically - and regularly."

A monstrous blowfly buzzed around Marmaduke's face. He wriggled his nose at it like a rabbit.

"PAY ATTENTION, BOY!" Frank's voice rattled through the trees.

Marmaduke jumped.

"Get your feet apart! Hold that thing straight! I'm talking to you, for fuck's sake!"

There was a pause. Marmaduke desperately wanted to shed the thing on his back and would do anything that might make Frank show some mercy.

"Now, there's something else . . ." said Frank, moving towards Kiara.

He withdrew from a saddlebag, a Lite-Carbon buggy-whip.

Marmaduke froze. Something heavy and hot, and . . . delicious . . . dropped from the pit of his belly almost into his balls. He sucked in through his nose.

The whip was black, and long. Balanced in Frank's hand, swishing gracefully, it was obviously lightweight. The handle was stiff and machine-wrapped with special tacky tanned black leather. It tapered and curved, then coiled, into a long, thin cracker-end of soft, plaited hide.

Frank had bought it by mail-order as a bit of a departure from the traditional hand-made crop, although he had plenty of those. Marmaduke, on the other hand, didn't know one type of whip from another. What he did know was that the sight of this one made his throat close up.

"Once again, this is not for punishment, Marmaduke. It's just to give you a little tickle when you need hurrying-up. That's all. It doesn't hurt - just reminds. It's nice and thin and has the reach, so I can flick your behind from horseback."

Frank looped it in his hand and lightly brushed a few drops of sweat from the boy's fluttering tummy with the coiled arch of it. Marmaduke felt how soft and fine the leather was.

"You may as well get a taste of it right now, as a matter of fact. We're going for a swamp-run so you can find out what my coaching will be like - to see if you're man enough for it!"

Frank remounted.

"MOVE IT, BOY!"

The thin whip whizzed in the air and caught Marmaduke squarely, and expertly, across both cheeks of his bare rump. It stung like hell.

"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOW!!!" Marmaduke wailed in full, dumb surprise.

"STOP YOUR SQUEALING, LAD! HARDEN UP! AND MOVE!!!"

Marmaduke skittered on the slippery mud and crashed headlong in the direction Frank had indicated. The muddy water enveloped him coolly as he forced his way through it. His rear-end was hot, - not hurting anymore - the warmness spreading to his body and limbs.