Date: Tue, 27 Nov 2007 16:50:12 +1300 (NZDT)
From: Nick Cramer <antinous48@yahoo.co.nz>
Subject: Cool Karl vs the jocks, part 2

This story features bullying 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 tells how he and his slave Nicky are kidnapped by Robby and
his three Jock friends.  Now Nicky begins to explain how he came to be
Karl's slave, a few weeks earlier ...

______

It was an accident that changed my life.  I was leaning across to speak to
my buddy Abe, two seats to my right, and happened to stick my leg out in
the aisle to my left, just as Karl Spivak was passing in a hurry.  I felt
something collide with my ankle, then I heard Karl's voice ('Shit!') and a
complex crash as the books that Karl was carrying, a desk that he bumped
into, and Karl himself (five foot ten of seventeen- year-old bone and
muscle) hit the hard floor in a confused heap.

There was giggling.  Some idiot said in a mock-pompous voice: 'Oh,
Nicholas, that was unfortunate!'  More giggling.  I quickly straightened up
and jerked my head round to the left. Karl was getting to his feet. 'Wow!
Gee!  I'm really sorry, Karl, I ...'

My voice faded as I realized that the incident was going to have
consequences -- adverse consequences.  Karl was not pleased.  He was
rubbing his left knee, and he winced as he put weight on his right leg.  He
was glowering at me.  I should explain that I was the sort of
fellow-student that Karl would never normally bother to look at.  And I was
happy that way.  Why would tough dangerous Karl ever want to look at a
well-behaved little nerd like me?  If he were ever to do so, it must mean
trouble of some kind.  And now -- he wasn't just looking at me.  That would
have been worrying enough.  No -- he was glaring at me with an expression
of pure hatred.

Just then Mr Thomas came in, to begin the class.  But there was time for
Karl to grab my ear and twist it hard before limping back to his seat
behind me.  'I'll see you after class, you little turd!' he hissed.

I won't give an account of the rest of that class, because I couldn't if I
tried.  I was vaguely aware of other students turning around and looking at
me, puzzled.  It seemed that Mr Thomas had asked me something, but I'd no
idea what he had said.  For once, brainy Nicholas didn't know the answer to
a question about algebra.  But what did that matter?  I was in depair.  I'd
been careful always to keep out of the way of bigger, stronger boys.  My
plan for getting through life was to creep along unnoticed -- or, at least,
noticed only by the teachers (they didn't count) and the other geeks (they
didn't count either, because they were harmless).  Now, here I was, noticed
in the worst possible way by Spivak, the mean dude from the tough part of
town.  My plan was in ruins, I told myself.  I was spiraling helplessly
towards disaster ...

I should explain that though I didn't want to be noticed by other guys, I
certainly noticed other guys myself.  Not the nerdy guys and the girls that
I discussed math with, and literature, and the Civil War.  They weren't
worthy of notice, not in the way I mean.  But a guy like, say, Robby
Flanders with the black wavy hair, whose shoulders I would admire as he sat
in class two rows ahead to my right, and whose cutely dimpled cheeks I
would look out for when he swiveled round to say something to his
girlfriend.  On days when Robby wore only a singlet, I would wait agog for
him to stretch and yawn, clasping his hands behind his head, displaying
those flawlessly proportioned delts and biceps and shoulder muscles ...
It's not such a bad world, I used to think to myself, given that there's
such beauty in it.

Then there were Robby's friends Steve Dawson, with floppy blond hair, and
Pete Petrowski, crew-cut and square-jawed, with a dimpled chin.  They were
all material for delightful fantasies.  I would fantasize about being
mugged and injured in a dark backstreet before being rescued in the nick of
time by Steve.  In a brief fierce battle, Steve would display his
formidable fighting skills.  ('Leave him alone!' 'What the ...?' POW!
'Ooof!' 'Unnh!' 'Get him! Grab the fucker!' 'I got him!' 'Boy, you gonna
learn what happens to punks who interfere with us, they get ...' THUD!
'Aaagh!'  WHAM! 'Holy shit ! Stu's out cold!  Hey, Wayne, help me ...' 'I
said leave him alone!' BLAM! POW! 'Uuuuuh ...'.)  Of the three bad guys who
had attacked me, one would be flat on the sidewalk, another would be
leaning senseless against the wall and the third would be slinking
hurriedly away.  Steve, battered and panting but victorious, would lift me
up in his strong arms, cradling me against his shoulder as his blue eyes
looked down at me with concern.  He would escort me home and I would bathe
his cuts and bruises ...  Or else Pete would rescue me from drowning.  As
my eyelids flutter open, I see him kneeling beside me, water pouring off
him, his chest heaving.  His anxious expression turns into a grin of
relief.  'Thank God I was in time, Nick,' he says, bending over me and
stroking my cheek as I put my hand up to rest on his shoulder ...

Robby, Steve and Pete were all hotshot athletes, hanging out with each
other and with Brainless Brad.  'Brainless Brad' -- well, that's not a name
that anyone used to his face, of course, least of all someone like me.  His
real name was Brad van der Velden, and he he always wore an amiable smile.
But he was kind of a parody of a teen muscleman.  His neck was as wide as
his head, and his bulging pecs and eight-pack abs were just a bit overdone
for my taste.

You'll notice I haven't included in this list Karl Spivak, the guy I had
just accidentally tripped.  He wasn't an athlete, though he could have been
if he had wanted.  In fact, relations between him and Robby's crowd were
not friendly.  They had tried to persuade him to try for the senior
football team at the beginning of the year, because he had the build for
it.  But he scornfully rejected the norms of our school and the
middle-class aspirations of most of the kids there.  He was a slacker,
always slumped languidly in his seat, treating teachers with indifference
bordering on contempt.  As for his looks -- well, like I said, he had the
build of a potential athlete, but he was no conventional Hollywood pinup.
His straight hair was a rich honey- blond color, but it dangled untidily.
He had acne on both cheeks.  His nose was long but turned up at the tip, so
one was always aware of his nostrils.  One was aware also of his irregular
teeth, because his mouth was always half open.  As for his eyes and his
arrogant smile ... I'll come back to them later.

Mr Thomas's class was the last before the lunch break.  Sure enough, as
soon as the bell rang, I sensed rather than saw Karl's presence in the
aisle beside me.  I didn't dare look up, but I couldn't help seeing his
hands, menacingly close. His arms dangled loosely so that his knuckles
brushed against the surface of my desk.  They were just the ordinary hands
of a seventeen-year-old male, the fingernails slightly grubby,
harmless-seeming, half-covered by the sleeves of his denim jacket -- but I
knew that any moment those hands could bunch into hard fists, or grab my
neck and throttle me ...

In my state of terrified hyper-awareness, I registered what else I saw of
Karl with unusual clarity.  His feet, in dirty sneakers, were planted
firmly apart and his pelvis was thrust forward so that his jeans-clad
thighs leaned against the edge of my desk.  His calves and thighs were
clearly outlined by by the pale blue denim.  The jeans had seen better
days, and there was a horizonal rip just above his right knee.  He wore an
old brown leather belt, and, above his waistband, his unbuttoned denim
jacket revealed his stomach, bulging just enough to highlight his navel
under the stretched cotton of an old grey T-shirt ...

I didn't dare raise my head any higher, to look at his chest or his face.
But Karl knew that he had my undivided attention.  He spoke quietly, in a
voice all the more chilling for being quiet.  'Listen up, you little creep.
I'm gonna walk across the schoolyard to the storage sheds.  You will follow
me, at a respectful distance.'  (There was heavy emphasis on 'respectful'.)
'Got that?'

'Y-yes, Karl.'

'Yes, SIR!'

'Yessir, yessir, I got it, I'm to follow you to the storage sheds ...'

'... because otherwise, later today, you'll be leavin' the school in an
ambulance.'

I gulped and whimpered inwardly.  I've never heard of anyone whimpering
silently before, but that's what it felt like with me.

Karl didn't wait for me to say anything more.  He walked through the
classroom door, still limping slightly, without a backward glance.  I
scrambled to my feet and pushed through the melee of fellow-students so as
to keep Karl in sight.  Seeing him ahead of me, I became conscious again of
how much bigger he was than me: five foot ten to my five foot six, and
other dimensions to match.  What was going through my head was: 'But
... but ... at least he said ... that is, if I do exactly what he tells me,
at least I shouldn't need an ambulance ...'

We reached a storage shed which I was sure hadn't been used for years.  To
my surprise, Karl produced a key and unlocked the door.  I followed him
into the dusty dim room.  I noticed some stacked school chairs, some desks,
a broken-down sofa.  Once we were inside, Karl locked the door.  Then he
turned to face me, grabbed me by the shoulders, and rammed my back against
the wall ...

[to be continued]