Date: Sun, 20 Dec 2015 16:20:45 +0800
From: Ben Coolen <bencoolen1212@gmail.com>
Subject: The Senior Towel Boy

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.

Please keep in mind that Nifty needs our donations to keep this great free
service running.

-----


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?