The Senior Towelboy
By Ben C.
This story contains sexual acts (domination, humiliation, oral, masturbation) between young males.
If you don't like it, or it is illegal in your country or state, please stop reading.
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It was a very, very stupid thing to do. But it was too late to change my mind now; sitting in the Principal´s office with the Coach, who acted also as the school´s security administrator, and my Dad. The Principal opened the meeting.
"Well, Mr. Henderson, as you know, according to the school district´s code of discipline, I have no other choice but to expel your son. However, as the attempt to hack into the school server to steal the test questions was unsuccessful, we are not necessarily obliged to get the police involved."
"I see," my dad said. His voice oozed authority, as always.
"My son has acted like a total idiot, Mr. Saunders. I expect him to be punished severely. But to get kicked out of high school would ruin his future. And I have a very bright future planned for him."
"I understand your concern, Sir. But the code is very clear in..."
"Eddie, please. I know the code. But certain very important projects would be jeopardized as a result of such an unreasonable decision. You must understand that my interest to continue funding the new sports facility would not be the best possible if my son would not be attending this school anymore."
That made Coach Bennett chime in. He coughed a little to get some time to think.
"But Gentlemen... this project is vital to our athletic success and the school´s reputation. Couldn´t we work something out, Eddie? There´s no need for us to do an overkill here. We can work out some severe punishment without expelling him, I´m sure."
"What do you have in mind, Frank?"
"Well, first of all, Mr. Henderson, now that you mentioned the project. I´m a bit worried about the lighting of the Grand Arena. The bids are in, and we have to make a decision soon. At the moment it seems that we have to settle with a cheaper system than we planned because of budget limitations. It´s such a pity because there are so many better options available."
"And how much are you short of the better options, Frank?"
"Oh, it would be around twenty-five thousand, give or take a grand or two."
"I´m sure that could be arranged under favorable circumstances."
Ha! My dad´s money was going to let me off the hook as usual. Being rich has advantages.
"What about the punishment, Frank?" the Principal asked.
"Let me think. Umm, no... that would be too lenient. But yes. The boys´ soccer team needs an equipment manager."
I let out a chuckle.
"I don´t know a damned thing about soccer and equipment. And I don´t want to know. You gotta do better than that, Coach."
"Shut up, Ray," my father snapped angrily.
"Go on, Frank."
"Well, the thing is, he doesn´t really need to know much. I have taken care of the uniforms and stuff so far myself, but I don´t really have time for that. My wife has done all the washing at our home, but she´s sick of it. So I need someone to hand out towels and collect them in the locker room after practice and home games. After he has collected all the towels and dirty uniforms he will wash them in the gym´s washing machine. And he sees that the locker room is nice and clean after the team is gone. That´s pretty much it."
"Dad!" I quipped in horror.
The soccer team had been very successful lately, thanks to a bunch of juniors and sophomores who had taken a liking on the round ball instead of the traditional oval one. Some of the team members were only sixteen, and all of them were obnoxious jocks. They couldn´t seriously expect me to act as their towel boy.
"Good. He´ll do it. The team will have a very hard-working equipment manager. If he makes any kind of trouble, just let me know. If the Coach brings me any bad news about your performance in the locker room, Ray, you can say goodbye to your car."
My world collapsed in that meeting. Until then, I had been enjoying an extremely comfortable life as the only child of a millionaire father and a caring mother. I was driving a red Corvette, and my clothes were the best and trendiest that money can buy. With a sIim 5'11" frame, fair blond hair and a nice smile I considered myself good-looking. Add a lot of confidence, a golden Rolex and a pair of Ray-Bans – that´s me, Raymond Alexander Henderson III. Girls swarmed around me.
Yes, girls.
I had dated some of the girls and made out with them as well, but so far none of the girls had made me really aroused. The fault was in their qualities, of course, and I was definitely going to marry a beautiful and classy girl someday and produce good-quality babies to continue the success story of our family.
During a trip to Mexico I booked a hooker to practice sex, so that I would be prepared for the real thing. The girl was young and pretty, but I couldn´t get it up, no matter how hard she tried to help me. Well, that was just because she was socially so much below my status that my noble instincts prevented me to have intercourse with her. For some reason I kept thinking about her brother who took the payment. I can still remember the contempt on his young face when he looked at me. Handsome boy he was too – but that´s not important.
The only thing that was troubling my relationship with my Dad was school. I tried to explain to him that in my case formal education was a waste of money, as I would get a shiny and well paid job in the company anyway. Besides, most of the students of our school came from the wrong side of the tracks; not a bunch of people I would socialize with. But Dad was persistent. I needed to graduate from high school and it was high time, he told me over and over again, as I had turned nineteen. According to him, mingling with the little people was good training for my future. I would be leading a large crowd of them someday, so I needed to understand how they acted and talked; how they saw things in their little minds.
When the first day of my long and unjust punishment came, I arrived early to make an impression to the team. I let the tires of my Corvette scream unnecessarily, as I parked it in front of the sport facility. I left intentionally several empty spots between my car and the Toyotas and Hondas of the team members. I saw some of the players on the field look at my direction. Good. I was making things clear from the start.
As I had nothing else to do for a while, I leaned on the fence and watched the team practice passes and shots. The Coach was blowing his whistle like a madman, and the boys ran across the lawn according to his orders. What a bunch of losers.
The Captain of the team was a forward called Gino. He was only sixteen, but by far the best player in the team. He followed the style of countless famous Italian soccer players; he kept his long, unruly black hair tied with a bandanna, and he loved to perform for the audience. Our school took soccer very seriously, and the team members wore uniforms even at practice. Gino carried with great pride his number 10 marlin-blue shirt with his name printed on the back in block letters: ROSSI.
I went to one of their games once as the girl I was dating then wanted to see it. I had to admit that there was certain glory around the good-looking youngster; the way he raced across the field faster than anyone else, the way he celebrated the goal he scored, the way he stripped off his shirt after the game and strutted off the field with his sculpted body shining with sweat; winking at pretty girls as he swaggered past them, making them giggle and blush and admire his v-shaped back and tight butt.
Gino was proud of his Italian roots. He liked to throw in Italian phrases when he spoke, and girls found that irresistible. Outside school his life was not glamorous, though. His family had trouble making ends meet with the income they made from their small pizzeria, so Gino worked there on weekends, delivering pizzas with their clunky old van.
I ordered food from them sometimes, as it was the closest parlor to our home. On one occasion it was Gino who brought me the food. I enjoyed being served by another kid from our school. I paid for the pizza and made sure to count the money slowly from a thick wad of bills. I pretended to hesitate before fishing out two more bucks. I handed him the tip with a patronizing smile. I could see the fury in his dark eyes, but there was nothing he could do about it. I laughed aloud afterwards.
When the practice was over, the small locker room filled quickly with sweaty young athletes. In a few minutes the stench was nearly intolerable. The guys stripped off their uniforms, shin pads, cleats and shorts and sat down on the benches, talking and joking while they waited their bodies to cease sweating so they could hit the showers. There was a certain routine, the Coach had told me, so I just waited in a corner leaning on the laundry cart. The cart was my main tool of the trade, a simple thing with two frames holding two large laundry bags; one for towels and one for uniforms.
It seemed that most of the boys had already shunned their uniforms. Maybe I could make things move faster by collecting the uniforms now, before I was expected to hand out the towels? I went slowly around the locker room pushing the squeaking cart. Some of the boys teased me bit, pretending to throw their shirts or shorts into the bag, but `accidentally´ missing, so they could watch me pick them up.
I guess it was just boys´ play, nothing really malicious, but it started to piss me off. Crouching down in front of teen jocks and picking up their sweaty clothes was degrading and simply unsuitable for me. I mean, it might be all right as a joke in their world, but not in mine, where people had household staff to pick up their stuff.
Gino had left his uniform on the bench so I just picked it up and dropped it into the laundry bag. But he had to have his share of fun, of course. He peeled off his long marlin-blue soccer socks and offered them to me.
"Wash these and bring them to the next practice, buddy."
He knew very well that the guys had to wash their socks and underwear themselves, or as in most cases, let their mothers do it. He was just picking on me.
I sighed and decided to play it cool.
"Gino, you know I don´t have to wash your socks. Just wash them yourself."
He pretended to beg me.
"Please Ray, I don´t know how to do that. I bet you´re a real expert in washing guys´ socks," he pleaded, making everyone laugh.
That was too much. People like him don´t talk like that to people like me.
"Fuck you, Gino! Everybody knows the only thing you and your family are good for is cooking crappy dago food. Don´t expect any tips from me from now on, pizza boy. Go beg for coins elsewhere," I yelled at him.
Gino acted like a lightning. He got up and gave me a hard slap across the face. It hurt a lot and tears welled up in my eyes.
The locker room fell silent.
"What did you say?"
His voice was soft but the threat was obvious. I glanced at the door, but Toby, a sturdy defender, moved in front of it, smiling at me.
"Come again. What did you just say about me and my family?"
"I´m sorry Gino, I didn´t mean that, please..."
I expected the other guys to come to my assistance, but no. Strong hands grabbed my arms from behind.
"Just punch his lights out Gino, the rich boy deserves it. The Coach is in a meeting. We´ve got your back, he fell off the stairs," one of the guys suggested.
Gino pondered his decision for a long time, all the time looking at me. Eventually he sat down.
"I don´t want to tarnish my hands with a douche-bag like him. But I want to hear an apology."
"Aww, come on Gino, that´s not enough, just kick his teeth in."
A broad white smile appeared on Gino´s handsome face. He spread his arms and looked at his teammates.
"Ragazzi, I´m a generous man."
"Aww no, Gino´s gone soft."
I saw a chance to escape.
"Thanks Gino, and sorry again. I gotta go and take care of my job," I stuttered and sneaked towards the door.
"You´re going nowhere. We´ll hear your apology first."
"Well okay. I apologize..."
Gino cut me off.
"Get on your knees."
"What?"
Gino´s brusque command electrified the room again. The guys realized that he wasn´t really letting me off the hook. There was going to be a show after all.
"Please Gino, you can´t get expect me to kneel..."
Someone gave me a sharp kick across the back of my left knee and I fell down on the floor, hitting my knee painfully on the rugged tiling. The situation had suddenly turned even more menacing for me. I knew I had to get out of it quickly before things got even worse. I was on my all fours in front of Gino already, so what the hell. Pride is one thing, but dental health is more important.
"Gino, I truly apologize for insulting you. I regret it and I hope you can forgive me. I totally respect your family and..."
My babbling made him laugh.
"Not good enough."
"Gino, please, what do you want me to do?"
He just sneered down at me for a long while. Finally he spoke – slowly and clearly.
"Baciarmi i piedi puzzolenti italiani, culattone."
His Italian words sounded so beautiful, when he said them with his velvety, manly voice. It was just like listening to the Maitre D´ of our favorite Italian restaurant presenting fine dining novelties for us. But Gino was not offering me lobster, that was clear.
The boys around us were anxious to hear more.
"What does it mean, Gino? What did you say to him?"
But Gino just sat there with a smug smile on his face.
"You wanna know what I said to him?"
"Fuck yeah, go on Gino, tell us, come on!"
He paused for a good while like any good performer.
"I said..."
He extended his long legs so that his feet were right in front my face.
"...kiss my stinking Italian feet, faggot," he said, and the locker room exploded in jeers and cat-calls.
Oh no, not this. I stared at Gino´s hairy calves and the bare feet beneath them. His feet were still flushed from all the running and kicking, and I could smell them from where I was crouching.
"Please, Gino..."
"Kiss my feet, finocchio."
Someone shouted right into my ear:
"Do it, or you´ll get your ass kicked for real!"
The boys around me started to taunt me rhythmically.
"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"
Someone kicked my butt.
I knew there was no escape. Fighting back tears I leaned down and let my lips touch Gino´s right foot ever so slightly.
When the chorus of laughter that followed my shameful act finally faded, Gino gave his judgement.
"Not good enough. I want to see a proper kiss. And I want to hear it."
More jeering.
I tried again; this time I pressed my lips on the skin of his foot and sucked in, causing a plausible smack. Everybody laughed.
"Good. Now the other one."
I repeated my oral apology on his left foot. This time I stuck my tongue out a little – accidentally – and got a taste of the sweetness and sourness of a teenage jock´s foot sweat. I looked up at Gino, hoping that he would let me go now. But no, there was still the final insult to come.
Gino smiled at me, picked up his cleats and tossed them on the floor. The grass-stained silvery shoes landed with a thud in front of me.
"Bring them to me tomorrow at school, frocio. Clean and fresh," he instructed to a roar of laughter that seemed to go on and on, until Toby snapped a warning from his position at the door.
"Coach approaching."
I barely got up in time before the Coach Bennett entered the room.
"What the hell is going on here?" he bellowed.
"Sorry Coach. Henderson here was just telling us jokes. He´s such a funny guy."
The Coach shot an angry glance at me.
"You´re not here to entertain the team, Henderson. Pick up every piece of uniform and start handing out the towels. This shouldn´t be too difficult, Henderson."
"Yes Sir," I said, and started to push my cart again, carrying Gino´ cleats in my hand. I saw the Coach look at them, but he didn´t say anything. Gino smiled and handed me his shirt. I placed it on top of the pile and went on with my chores.
After the boys were gone and I had swiped the locker room floor, I retreated to the small laundry room and locked the door behind me. I sat down on the floor, tears running down my cheeks.
"Why are you doing this to me, Dad? I hate these guys," I sobbed aloud.
I closed my eyes and saw Gino´s grinning face in front of me. I opened my eyes again. What the hell is this, I thought in panic. I want out of this dream! But no. I closed my eyes again and saw him sprawled on the locker room bench, shirtless, wearing just a pair of black compression boxers, his thick black hair all messed up and sweaty.
I reached for the cart and took out Gino´s shirt. I heard him speak inside my head.
"Kiss my stinking Italian feet, culattone."
I fished my cock hastily out of my pants with my right hand while my left hand pressed Gino´s wet shirt on my face. I inhaled greedily the aroma of his fresh sweat. I didn´t need to jack off much before I shot a copious load of cum into my palm.
What is happening to me?
Want to find out? Then drop me a line or two! bencoolen1212@gmail.com
P.S. To continue the story, I would very much appreciate a little help from someone who speaks Italian. I would need him to translate some simple (but very nasty) sentences. Anyone?